- 


The  Flaw  in  the  Marble 


TWENTIETH  CENTURY  SERIES 


In  the  Midst  of  Alarms  ,  .  Robert  Barr 
The  Devil's  Playground  .  .  John  Mackie 
The  Face  and  the  Mask  .  .  Robert  Barr 
The  Phantom  Death  .  W.  Clark  Russell 
The  Sale  of  a  Soul  .  F.  Frankfort  Moore 
Dead  Man's  Court  .  Maurice  H.  Hervey 
Sinners  Twain  ....  John  Mackie 

Toxin Ouida 

I  Married  a  Wife  .  John  Strange  Winter 
Diana's  Hunting  •  •  Robert  Buchanan 
Dartmoor  ....  Maurice  H.  Hervey 
From  Whose  Bourne.  .  .  Robert  Barr 
The  Flaw  in  the  Marble 

IN   PREPARATION 

Vauder's  Understudy 


"LANTHONY  STRUCK  RIGHT  AND  LEFT  AT 

THE  MARBLE   FIGURE." — Ptlge2Jj. 


The 
Flaw  in  the  Marble 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
HARRY  C.  EDWARDS 


flew  Korfe  atrt  lonj-on 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright)  1896,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


INTRODUCTION. 


"  'LA  JOCONDE '  we  used  to  call  her, 
because  of  her  wonderful  likeness  to 
Da  Vinci's  picture.  She  was  more  like 
a  picture  than  a  woman,  with  her 
habit  of  sitting  absolutely  motionless, 
and  that  eternal  smile  of  hers — a  smile 
which  seemed  to  make  you  feel  that 
she  had  known  all  about  you  for  ever 
so  long  without  any  telling,  had  per- 
haps, an  unlimited  contempt  for  you 
and,  a  little  pity  too." 

The  speaker  was  Martelys  the 
painter,  and  the  person  he  addressed, 
Wayne  of  the  American  Legation,  but 
lately  arrived  in  Paris.  The  woman 
he  spoke  of  had  some  years  before 
been  known  to  most  of  us  personally, 
and  to  all  of  us  by  reputation — the 
famous  actress  Madeleine  Le  Fagon, 


17-170GS 


4  Cbc  ff  law  in  tbe  /ibarble. 

the  news  of  whose  recent  death  at 
Vienna  was  the  chief  item  of  interest 
in  the  evening  papers,  and  the  little 
sensation  of  the  moment.  She  had 
had  a  great  success  in  Paris,  but  had 
long  since  forsaken  the  scene  of  her 
earlier  triumphs  for  places  further 
afield,  and  had  there  attained  a  vast 
professional  popularity,  and  amassed, 
it  was  said,  considerable  fortune. 
Parisians  do  not  easily  forgive  the 
desertion  of  those  who  have  reached 
the  pinnacle  of  popular  favor  with  a 
public  alike  the  most  critical  and  the 
most  capricious  in  the  world ;  and 
many  reasons,  possible  and  impos- 
sible, had  been  alleged  for  her  abrupt 
departure  and  her  determined  re- 
fusal to  return.  But  the  mystery  had 
remained  a  mystery,  and  now  she  was 
dead. 

We  had  been  dining  together  at  the 
Caf6  de  Paris — Martelys,  de  Fresnaye, 
de  Clavieres,  the  celebrated  critic  and 
playwright,  Rooselinck,  the  animal 
painter,  Vibecq,  the  actor,  Wayne,  and 
myself — and  after  dinner  had  adjourned 
to  Martelys'  studio  in  the  Rue  Vivi- 
enne.  One  or  two  other  men  had 
dropped  in,  and  at  the  time  talk  turned 


jflaw  in  tbe  Garble.  5 

on  Le  Fagon  we  were  about  a  dozen 
in  all. 

"  And  was  she  really  so  very  beauti- 
ful ? "  asked  Wayne ;  he  was,  as  I 
have  said,  new  to  Paris.  No  one  ans- 
wered immediately — each  of  us  had  his 
own  opinion,  yet  none  of  us  seemed  to 
care  to  put  it  into  words. 

"  I  never  admired  her  myself,"  said 
a  late-comer  whose  face  was  unfamiliar 
to  me. 

"Take  care,  Raoul,"  said  Martelys, 
smiling,  "  qui  s1  excuse  s1  accuse" 

"  Beauty  is  a  question  of  taste,"  said 
Rooselinck,  sticking  out  his  fat  legs  in 
front  of  him,  and  emitting  a  huge 
cloud  of  smoke.  "  You  would  find 
plenty  of  men  to  tell  you  '  Yes,'  and 
at  least  as  many  to  tell  you  '  No.'  Her 
features  were  very  perfect,  and  all 
that ;  but  she  had  very  little  life  in  her 
face — her  expression  was  always  the 
same." 

("  Except  when  it  varied,"  interpo- 
lated Vibecq.) 

"  However,  if  you  want  an  exhaust- 
ive opinion,  you  can't  do  better  than 
ask  Martelys ;  she  sat  to  him  more 
than  once  for  her  portrait." 

Wayne   looked   inquiringly  at     our 


6  Gbe  fflaw  fn  tbe  /Bbarble. 

host,  who  was  silent  for  a  moment  and 
then  said  slowly,  "You  will  have 
ample  opportunity  of  judging  for  your- 
self in  a  day  or  two,  for  every  shop 
window  in  Paris  will  once  more  be  solid 
with  photographs  of  her.  Ce  que  cest 
de  nous  /  Only  twice  is  a  great  artist 
or  celebrity  so  far  honored  by  the 
crowd  as  to  make  such  advertisement 
profitable — when  he  has  scored  his  first 
big  success,  and  when  he  dies." 

"  She  was  an  icicle,  a  veritable  icicle, 
that  woman,"  broke  in  de  Fresnaye 
with  curious  emphasis ;  "  nothing  in 
the  wide  world  had  power  to  move  her 
or  touch  her  in  any  way,  neither  suc- 
cess, nor  love,  nor  passion,  nor  popu- 
larity, nor  the  want  of  it — nothing! 
except,  perhaps  indeed,  money." 

"Yes,"  said  Rooselinck,  "there  is 
very  little  doubt  that  she  appreciated 
that ;  she  knew  better  than  most  how 
to  make  good  terms  for  herself.  I 
believe,  pure  Frenchwoman  though 
she  said  she  was,  that  there  must  have 
been  a  good  deal  of  the  Jew  in  her." 

At  which  there  was  a  laugh,  for  the 
speaker  was  himself  a  Jew. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  cared  for  money 
in  itself,"  remarked  de  Clavieres,  "  only 


Jflaw  in  tbe  ^barbie.  7 

for  what  it  brought  her.  She  loved 
luxury,  and  every  enjoyment  and 
pleasure  of  life — save  one,"  he  added 
musingly. 

Had  he  by  chance  been  one  of  the 
many  who  had  worshipped  without 
hope,  and  burnt  their  incense  in  vain  at 
the  dead  woman's  shrine  ?  The  story 
went  that  the  genial  de  Clavieres, 
now  so  indifferent  to  women  and 
sceptical  as  to  love,  had  once  thought 
differently,  but  that  the  one  woman  on 
whom  he  had  set  his  heart  had  refused 
him  and  laughed  at  his  suit.  I  cannot 
tell. 

"  I  suppose  there  can  be,  at  any 
rate,  no  doubt  about  her  art — that  she 
was  a  great  artist,  I  mean  ? "  asked 
Wayne. 

"  That  also  is  a  question  which  may 
be  answered  in  two  ways,"  replied 
Martelys.  "There  is  no  denying  her 
marvellous  power ;  she  was  a  born 
genius,  and  she  did  not  despise  the 
training  necessary  to  mature  her 
talents,  as  so  many  born  geniuses  do. 
But  her  creations,  wonderful  as  they 
were,  left  her  cold.  She  could  drive  a 
thousand  people  of  a  hundred  different 
types,  and  habits,  and  ideals,  wild 


8  Cbe  fflaw  In  tbe  dbarble. 

with  enthusiasm,  and  feel  no  corre- 
sponding thrill  herself.  She  had  not 
merely  the  indispensable  retenue 
which  is  the  result  of  training — that 
self-command  which  even  in  the  most 
impassioned  scenes  never  for  a  mo- 
ment lets  an  actor  forget  the  how  as 
well  as  the  why  of  his  influence  on 
people's  emotions — she  went  beyond 
that :  she  simply  did  not  care." 

"  But  how,  in  that  case,  did  she 
achieve  being  a  great  actress  ?  "  queried 
Wayne. 

"  One  half  of  art  is  deceptive  con- 
vention, and  the  rest  selection,  plus 
the  faculty  for  unremitting  and  unim- 
passioned  observation,"  said  de  Fres- 
naye.  "  She  could  reproduce  every 
emotion  or  passion  common  to  man 
without  ever  feeling  any  one  of 
them  in  any  shade  or  degree :  dans 
un  mot,  she  was  a  great  actress." 

"  You  say  she  could  reproduce  all 
natural  emotions,"  resumed  Martelys, 
"  and  you  are  very  nearly  right ;  but 
there  is  one  which  is  said  to  be  the 
natural  heritage  of  every  woman,  born 
with  her  like  her  hands,  or  feet,  or 
eyes,  which  she  never  could  convey — 
tenderness." 


Cbe  flaw  in  tbc  /fcarble.  9 

"  Only  because  it  did  not  enter  into 
any  of  her  parts,"  said  de  Clavieres 
quietly ;  "  if  it  had,  she  would  have 
portrayed  it  as  convincingly  as  any 
other  emotion.  Nobody  who  has  not 
seen  her  act,"  he  went  on,  turning  to 
Wayne,  "can  possibly  realize  the 
power  and  truth  with  which  she  con- 
veyed feelings  which  to  her  personally 
were  a  dead  letter.  I  speak  '  en  con- 
naissance  de  cause,'  for  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  a  critic,  and  my  trade 
has  become  a  second  nature  to  me. 
And  I  have  the  further  misfortune  to 
be  a  dramatic  author;  and  who  ever 
heard  of  a  playwright  being  satisfied 
with  the  representation  of  his  own 
work  ?  Well,  I  speak  now  as  both 
author  and  critic.  Madame  Le  Fagon 
did  me  the  honor  to  play  the  leading 
part  in  more  than  one  piece  of  mine, 
and  I  give  you  my  word  I  never  knew 
all  they  could  mean  until  I  saw  them 
played  by  her.  I  am  thinking  more 
especially  of  '  Une  Vaine  Passion,' 
and  '  La  Femme  Incomprise.'  It  was 
a  case  of  sheer  inspiration.  She  made 
me  realize  at  one  and  the  same  mo- 
ment— for,  with  all  his  vanity  an 
author  is  forced  inwardly  to  recognize 


io          ftbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

his  limitations — alike  the  pettiness  of 
my  own  art  and  the  greatness  of  hers  ; 
a  greatness  which  outstripped  all 
achievements  of  her  forerunners,  and 
will  never  be  equalled  by  any  who 
come  after.  And  it  was  the  same,  in  a 
lesser  degree,  when  I  saw  her  in  the 
works  of  master-dramatists." 

"  She  was  marvellous,  inexpressible, 
indescribable,"  exclaimed  Vibecq. 
"When  I  tell  you  that  I,  vieux  cabotin 
que  je  suis,  I  used  to  find  myself  for- 
getting the  public,  forgetting  myself, 
forgetting  my  cue,  that  I  might  stand 
still  and  watch  her !  And  what  a 
voice  she  had  !  " 

"  The  most  inexplicable  thing  about 
her,"  said  Rooselinck,  "  was  her  abso- 
lute indifference  to  success — she  did 
not  care  two  sous  for  fame  except  for 
the  material  good  it  brought  her. 
Many  people  who  don't  succeed  affect 
a  cheap  cynicism  about  success  ;  but 
she  was  the  only  successful  person  I 
have  ever  known  who  professed  not  to 
care  for  it,  and  I  believe  she  was  sin- 
cere in  what  she  said." 

"  She  did  not  care  for  the  unreason- 
ing enthusiasm  of  the  crowd,  granted," 
replied  de  Clavieres,  "  but  she  certainly 


fflaw  in  tbe  flbarble.          n 

cared  in  some  degree  for  the  approba- 
tion of  those  who  were  qualified  to 
judge  of  her  merits  and  to  appreciate 
the  scope  and  balance  of  her  powers." 

What  de  Clavieres  had  said  of  him- 
self was  in  a  great  measure  true — the 
critic  rarely  forsook  the  man — and  he 
had  evidently  for  the  moment  com- 
pletely forgotten  that  he  had  been 
foremost  among  those  whom  he  had 
described  as  "  qualified  to  judge." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  on  such  excellent 
authority,  my  dear  Victor,  that  she  ap- 
preciated your  admirable,  if  somewhat 
effusive  critiques,"  said  de  Fresnaye 
with  a  smile;  "but  it  is  but  fair  that 
our  friend  here "  (nodding  towards 
Wayne)  "  should  hear  all  there  is  to  be 
said  upon  both  sides  of  a  question 
which,  apparently,  interests  him  so 
greatly.  I  have  the  misfortune,  mes- 
sieurs, not  to  be  a  critic,  and  I  there- 
fore do  not  feel  qualified  to  pronounce 
judgment  on  actresses  who  were  dead 
before  I  was  born ;  and  not  being  a 
prophet,  I  dare  not  swear  that  Made- 
leine Le  Fagon  will  never  be  surpassed. 
I  content  myself  with  saying  that  she 
was  undoubtedly  the  greatest  actress  I 
ever  saw,  and  probably  the  greatest  act- 


jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

ress  of  our  day.  But  I  too  happened  to 
know  her  personally  and  intimately,  and 
I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the 
term  '  great  artist '  can  not  be  applied 
to  her.  Why,  she  said  over  and  over 
again  that  her  art,  as  art,  was  absolutely 
nothing  to  her." 

"  It  does  not  follow  that  her  state- 
ment was  sincere,"  retorted  de 
Clavieres,  "  and  it  is  a  moral  and  intel- 
lectual impossibility  that  it  should  be 
true." 

"  You  should  never  impeach  a  lady's 
veracity,  Victor,"  said  the  other  with 
somewhat  of  a  sneer ;  "  besides,  if  you 
deny  the  accuracy  of  her  own  account 
of  herself  in  this  particular,  what  have 
you  to  show  for  many  other  statements 
made  about  her  to-night — that  she 
loved  money,  for  instance,  or  that  she 
was  indifferent  to  love  and  impervious 
to  passion  ?  " 

"  The  one  you  have  solely  upon  her 
own  authority,  and  she  may  have  de- 
ceived herself  as  she  apparently  de- 
ceived you.  The — the — other  things," 
continued  de  Clavieres  after  a  scarcely 
perceptible  pause,  "  are  proved,  so  far 
as  anything  can  be  proved,  by  her 
life." 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.  13 

"  But  why  on  earth,"  asked  Wayne, 
"  if  she  cared  neither  for  success,  nor 
for  art,  did  she  go  through  all  the 
drudgery  of  training  and  all  the  con- 
stant strain  of  work  necessary  to  make 
her  the  actress  she  was?  " 

"  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek," 
replied  de  Fresnaye,  lighting  a  fresh 
cigarette.  "  La  belle  Madeleine,  as  Vic- 
tor was  kind  enough  to  tell  us  awhile 
ago,  loved  luxury  and  ease — oh  !  but 
yes,  she  loved  them  very  much  indeed. 
These  are  attainable  by  a  woman  in 
her  position  only  in  one  of  three  ways 
— by  marriage,  by  another  less  direct 
road,  or  by  her  own  exertions.  The 
two  first,  for  reasons  best  known  to  her- 
self, she  rejected  ;  no  man  can  claim  to 
have  ever  touched  her  heart  or  moved 
her  senses.  She  hated  exertion,  but 
she  hated  poverty  and  all  its  attendant 
evils  worse  ;  and,  as  she  perf  erred  being 
beholden  to  thousands  to  dependence 
on  individuals,  she  devoted  herself  to 
pleasing  the  public  rather  than  a  hus- 
band or  a  lover." 

De  Fresnaye  delivered  himself  of 
this  tirade  with  the  utmost  deliberation 
and  calmness,  delicately  purring  at  his 
cigarette  the  while.  Yet  not  so  many 


14         £be  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble* 

years  ago  he,  who  was  so  calmly  dis- 
cussing the  demerits  (or  merits  ?)  of 
the  dead  woman,  he  too.  .  .  But  that, 
after  all,  does  not  concern  us.  Here 
probably  the  subject  would  have 
dropped,  but  that  Rooselinck,  address- 
ing a  man  who  had  taken  no  part  in 
the  conversation,  said,  "  We  haven't 
heard  your  views  upon  the  matter, 
Lanthony,  yet  you  must  have  known 
her  as  well  as  any  of  us." 

Paul  Lanthony,  the  famous  sculptor, 
was  sitting  at  a  table  a  little  apart, 
his  elbow  upon  it,  as  his  way  was,  his 
hand  shading  his  face  from  the  light. 
He  shifted  his  position  slightly  so  that 
we  saw  his  features.  He  had  been,  in- 
deed, according  to  some  people  still 
was,  a  singularly  handsome  man,  but 
there  was  a  prematurely  old  and  faded 
look  in  his  sunken  eyes  and  heavily- 
lined  brow. 

"I  knew  her — yes,"  he  answered 
with  the  air  of  one  who  has  just 
aroused  himself  from  a  dream. 

"  She  sat  to  you  for  your  famous 
<•  Circe,'  did  she  not,  monsieur  ?  "  asked 
Wayne. 

"  She  sat  to  me — yes,"  he  replied, 
*'  but  that  was  years  ago."  And  so 


jflaw  in  tbe  dfcarbte.          15 

saying,  he  rose  and  strolled  into  an  ad- 
joining room. 

"  They  say,"  said  Rooselinck,  as 
soon  as  he  had  disappeared,  "  that  he 
too  was  mad  about  her." 

"  Possibly,"  said  Martelys  rather 
hurriedly,  "  but,  as  he  says,  all  that 
was  years  ago." 

One  of  the  younger  men  asked  some 
questions  as  to  the  present  where- 
abouts of  the  'Circe.'  "That,  too, 
like  the  woman  who  sat  for  it,  is  a 
mystery,"  answered  Martelys.  "  It 
was  sold  to  a  rich  Hungarian  Jew  who 
lived  in  Vienna,  but  now  all  trace  of  it 
has  been  lost." 

"  There  was  a  story  that  it  was 

brought  back  to  Paris "  began 

Rooselinck. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  don't  believe  there  was 
any  truth  in  that.  Carrolin  never  be- 
lieved it,  and  he  was  bound  to  know." 

The  group  broke  up  and  drifted 
about  the  room,  and  Wayne  and  I 
took  our  leave.  "  Tell  me,"  he  asked 
Martelys,  who  had  followed  us  into 
the  hall  (he  has  a  boundless  thirst  for 
information,  has  Wayne),  "  this  woman 
who  acted  all  the  things  she  didn't 
feel,  so  wonderfully — passion  and  all 


16          Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  dfcatble. 

the  rest  of  it,  you  know — did  she  never 
play  a  part  which  brought  out  her 
strongest  characteristic  ?  Indifference, 
I  mean  ?  "  he  added. 

"  That,  mon  cher"  answered  the 
other,  with  a  queer  little  laugh,  "she 

kept  for  real  life." 

*  *  *  *  * 

It  so  happened  that  I  could  have 
told  my  inquisitive  companion  a  good 
deal  more  about  "La  Joconde"  than 
he  had  learned  from  the  foregoing  con- 
versation. I  had  known  her  long  and 
intimately :  what  the  others  had  said 
about  her  was  no  news  to  me,  but  I 
chanced  to  know  something  else  be- 
sides, though  she  had  never  told  me, 
which  explained  much  that  to  them 
was  a  sealed  book.  For  Lanthony 
had  for  years  past  been  one  of  my 
closest  friends,  and  latterly  his  history 
had  been  no  secret  for  me.  But 
though  death  had  removed,  in  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  all  reason  for 
silence,  he  was  still  alive,  and  therefore 
I  refrained.  To-day  I  am  free  to  tell 
my  story,  for  he  too  has  now  passed 
beyond  the  judgment  of  our  little 
world. 


PART  I. 


'  /  would  not  creep  along  the  coast,  but  steer 
Out  in  mid  sea,  by  guidance  of  the  stars" 


CHAPTER  I. 

THEY  were  doing  a  brisk  business  at 
the  Caf£  Restaurant  Mirabel  (com- 
monly known  as  Mathieu's)  on  the 
evening  on  which  my  story  opens.  The 
restaurant,  and  the  street  in  which  it 
stood,  have  alike  been  swept  away  in 
the  rage  for  improvement  which  has 
metamorphosed  so  many  quarters  of 
Paris  within  the  memory  of  most  of 
us  who  are  not,  even  now,  so  very 
old  ;  but  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak 
it  was  a  favored  resort  of  many  stu- 
dents on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine.  On 
this  day,  as  on  every  day  throughout 
the  year  between  six  o'clock  and  eight, 
the  long,  low  smoky  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  which  served  as  restau- 
rant, was  at  its  fullest  ;  almost  every 
table  was  crowded  with  parties  of  stu- 


20          Cbe  fflaw  In  tbe  flbarble. 

dents,  art  students  for  the  most  part, 
chaffing,  gesticulating,  eating  and  talk- 
ing all  at  once ;  distracted  waiters 
rushed  hither  and  thither,  in  shirt 
sleeves  and  white  aprons,  dashing 
down  "  portions  "  of  food  and  brocs  of 
wine  in  front  of  waiting  customers,  or 
shouting  orders  through  the  dark  pas- 
sage at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  which 
led  to  the  kitchens. 

A  young  man,  seemingly  the  only 
solitary  person  in  all  this  crowd  of 
noisy  good  fellowship,  who  had  just 
pushed  open  the  swing-door  leading 
from  the  street,  stood  hesitatingly  on 
the  threshold  looking  about  for  an  un- 
occupied table.  There  was  only  one, 
apparently,  and  that  was  right  at  the 
far  end  just  alongside  the  door  of  the 
passage  I  have  mentioned.  It  was 
generally  vacant,  that  table  ;  every  one 
seemed  to  shirk  it,  but  the  young  man 
saw  that  it  was  his  only  chance  of  a 
table  to  himself,  and  proceeded  to 
thread  his  way  across  the  room  to  it. 
He  knew  not  a  few  of  the  diners  there, 
it  appeared,  to  judge  by  the  flying 
greetings  he  received,  and  the  some- 
what derisive  comments  which  were 
made  upon-  him  as  soon  as  he  had 


Cbc  flaw  in  tbc  fl&arble.          21 

passed  ;  but  no  one  asked  him  to  join 
their  party,  or  offered  to  make  room  for 
him,  and  he  was  glad  they  did  not. 

"  Le  Solitaire  does  not  even  allow 
himself  a  treat  the  day  he  has  won  the 
silver  medal,"  said  one. 

"  Ma  foi,  but  it  is  not  at  Mathieu's 
I  should  dine  if  the  jury  had  but  had 
the  sense  to  recompense  my  so  admir- 
able work  by  even  the  two-sous  piece !  " 
(The  name  vulgarly  applied  to  the 
bronze  medal  of  the  fourth  class.) 

"  Bah !  it  would  be  all  the  same  if 
he  had  been  gold  medallist  and  cttcort 
into  the  bargain  ;  he  would  still  dine 
at  that  old  table  in  the  corner  there, 
all  alone,  with  never  a  word  to  say  for 
himself,  or  a  bottle  to  offer  to  his 
friends  !  "  said  a  third. 

The  object  of  these  uncomplimen- 
tary remarks  had  by  this  time  estab- 
lished himself  at  his  table,  and  sat 
awaiting  his  dinner  in  moody  si- 
lence. He  was  a  man  of  twenty-five  or 
so,  but  looked  older ;  his  light  brown 
hair,  cut  very  short,  broke  into  crisp, 
rebellious  little  curls  round  his  forehead 
and  temples ;  greyish-blue  eyes,  with 
brows  and  lashes  a  shade  or  two  darker 
than  his  hair,  lit  a  face  which  was 


3Fla\v  fn  tbe  Garble. 

striking  and  well-featured,  though  the 
one  point  which  should  have  rendered 
it  specially  noteworthy — a  mouth  of 
singular  beauty — was  hidden  under  a 
moustache  unusually  thick  and  heavy 
for  his  years.  It  was  a  contradictory 
sort  of  countenance,  in  which  the 
dreamy  abstraction  of  the  eyes  was 
denied  by  the  squareness  of  the  jaw 
and  the  firm  modelling  of  the  chin. 
He  was  about  the  middle  height,  with 
well-knit  limbs,  somewhat  inclining  to 
length,  and  his  hands,  which  were 
rather  large,  were  well  formed  and  full 
of  nervous  energy. 

To-day  he  had  scored  his  first  suc- 
cess, for  his  statue  had  been  received 
at  the  Salon,  and  the  silver  medal  of 
the  second  class  had  been  decreed  to 
him.  Yet  he  did  not  feel  elated  at  his 
good  fortune.  He  had  been  to  see  his 
statue — a  bronze  figure  of  a  running 
man,  about  two-thirds  life-size,  entered 
as  No.  513  in  the  official  catalogue,  un- 
der the  designation  simply  of  "  A  Run- 
ner, the  work  of  M.  Paul  Lanthony, 
pupil  of  M.  M.  Cossac  et  Plon  "  ;  and  he 
did  not  think  much  of  it  after  all,  this 
No.  513  which  a  week  ago  he  had  felt 
almost  proud  of.  It  looked  a  pigmy, 


jflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble.          23 

he  thought,  among  the  larger  and 
greater  work  which  surrounded  it,  and 
the  crude,  full  light  which  beat  down 
on  it  seemed  to  throw  into  evidence 
hitherto  unsuspected  defects. 

Such  depreciation  was,  no  doubt,  in 
part  produced  by  the  mere  physical  de- 
pression which  is  the  natural  reaction 
from  all  excessive  exertion  of  the 
brain ;  but  it  was  also  essentially  char- 
acteristic of  the  man.  While  his  work 
was  still  in  progress,  he  could  believe 
alike  in  it  and  in  himself ;  but  once  it 
was  finished,  he  doubted  both,  and 
often  subjected  his  completed  effort  to 
a  less  indulgent  criticism  than,  as  in 
this  case,  it  received  from  others. 

Then  he  had  wandered  about,  look- 
ing at  the  exhibits  of  the  few  acknowl- 
edged great  men,  and  of  the  many 
men  who  would  perhaps  some  day  be 
great,  until  he  felt  his  eyes  blurred 
with  the  glare  and  his  head  buzzing 
with  the  noise  about  him ;  and  then  he 
wandered  out  and  decided,  as  he  walked 
along  the  streets,  that  he  hated  ex- 
hibitions. He  was  unused  to  crowds, 
and  their  noise,  which  acts  as  a  stimu- 
lating influence  on  some,  irritated  and 
unnerved  him.  It  struck  him  after  a 


24          Gbe  jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

bit  that,  besides  being  tired,  he 
was  very  hungry,  and  so  he  made  his 
way  to  Mathieu's  to  dine  there,  as 
he  had  done  any  day  the  last  five 
years. 

The  cuisine  at  the  Cafe  Mirabel  was 
not  noted  for  its  excellence,  and  he 
certainly  did  not  dine  there,  as  so 
many  others  did,  for  the  sake  of  the 
company.  He  had  been  introduced  to 
the  restaurant  shortly  after  his  arrival 
in  Paris  by  a  studio-mate  at  Cossac's, 
and  had  continued  to  dine  there  ever 
since  from  habit  and  from  indifference. 
One  must  eat  somewhere,  and  one  place 
was  as  good  as  another  to  him.  More- 
over, there  was  about  him,  in  all 
matters  not  relating  to  his  art,  a  cer- 
tain shyness  and  mauvaise  honte,  which 
debarred  him  from  voyages  of  dis- 
covery into  the  glittering  world  of 
Paris  beyond  his  o'wn  very  limited 
horizon.  He  hardly  knew  more  of  it 
than  the  tourists  who  pay  it  a  flying 
visit.  Indeed,  it  is  to  be  doubted 
whether  he  had  even  seen  as  much  of 
its  sights  as  they.  Some  one  had 
once  said  of  him,  that  he  regarded 
Paris  simply  as  a  city  which  held 
the  museum  of  the  Louvre ;  and  if 


jflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          25 

one  adds  to  this  that  he  looked  upon 
the  studio  system  as  its  one  other 
attraction,  it  would  be  a  pretty  correct 
epitome  of  his  ideas.  He  did  not 
know,  he  did  not  want  to  know  more 
about  it  than  this ;  and,  though  he 
continued  to  live  in  Paris,  he  remained, 
both  at  the  time  I  speak  of  and  for 
some  years  after  he  had  become  one  of 
its  celebrities,  "  a  provincial  "  both  in 
heart  and  tastes. 

To-night,  however,  his  loneliness 
amidst  the  laughing  and  chattering 
crowd  which  surrounded  him  was 
borne  in  upon  him,  as  he  listened  to 
the  various  groups  of  comrades  descant- 
ing upon  their  successes,  or  making 
merry  over  their  failures.  He  was 
among  them  but  not  of  them,  nor  did 
he  desire  to  be  ;  yet  he  sometimes  felt 
his  aloofness  from  the  things  and  peo- 
ple about  him,  none  the  less,  perhaps, 
that  it  was  in  great  measure  of  his  own 
choosing. 

Shortly  before  his  fellow-students 
had  started  discussing  him  with  more 
or  less  disfavor,  two  men,  each  pretty 
well  at  the  top  of  his  own  particular 
tree,  had  been  talking  about  him  too. 
One  of  these  was  Xavier  Plon,  the 


26         abe  jflaw  in  tbe  dfoarble. 

doyen  of  Paris  sculptors  and  Lanthony's 
present  master,  the  other,  Leon  Carro- 
lin,  the  portrait-painter,  his  best,  al- 
most his  only  friend.  They  were  both 
well-known  figures  in  the  Paris  of  that 
day.  Who  does  not  remember  Plon's 
leonine  white  mane,  his  black  velvet 
coat,  his  huge  feet  encased  in  yellow 
boots  (long  before  yellow  boots  were 
thought  of  for  the  rest  of  the  world),  his 
gruff  voice  and  his  red-cotton  pocket- 
handkerchief  ?  Or  Leon  Carrolin's 
handsome  face  and  ready  grace  of 
manner?  Plon  was  called  by  his 
pupils  and  admirers  v  Le  Roi  des 
Grecs,"  from  his  religious  devotion  to 
antique  ideals ;  and  Carrolin  was,  as 
every  one  knows,  the  most  modern  of 
modern  portrait-painters,  and  an 
equally  devout  worshipper  of  every- 
thing that  went  to  make  up  the  Paris 
of  his  time.  There  were  close  on 
thirty  years  between  their  ages,  and 
more  than  twenty  centuries  divided 
their  ideals ;  they,  differed  on  almost 
every  subject  under  heaven,  and  told 
each  other  so,  and  were  the  best 
friends  in  the  world. 

Meeting    together   late    that    after- 
noon at  Ledoyen's  they  immediately 


jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.          27 

fell  to  discussing  Lanthony's  $  Run- 
ner," his  first  exhibited  work. 

"  Eh  bicn  !  "  said  Plon,  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  I  hope  that  fellow  is  moving 
along — he  will  go  far." 

His  remark  applied  to  the  statue, 
but  Carrolin  took  it  as  relating  to  his 
friend. 

"  I  think  so,  I  hope  so,"  he  replied. 
"  It  is  a  great  advance  on  anything  he 
has  yet  done,  but  there  is  something 
wanting  to  it.  .  Beautiful  as  it  is,  it 
lacks  life.  It  is  full  of  careful  obser- 
vation and  patient  effort,  but  it  is  the 
work  of  a  man  who  has  spent  his  time 
looking  at  statues  rather  than  at 
human  beings." 

Plon  was  up  in  arms  at  once  on 
behalf  of  his  favorite  pupil. 

"And  if  he  has?  It  is  the  best 
school  in  which  to  train  the  eye  and 
hand  :  far  better  to  study  human  form 
as  it  should  be,  as  the  Greeks  under- 
stood it,  bien  entendu,  than  to  fribble 
away  time,  as  you  and  your  fellows  do 
in  looking  at  it,  as  it  is  and  shouldn't 
be.  Point  me  out  any  essential  defect 
of  bone  or  muscle  or  action  in  this 
'Runner'  of  Lanthony's  .  .  .  je  vous 
t'coute." 


28          ftbe  iflaw  {n  tbc  /Hbarble. 

"  It  is  a  very  accurate  model  of  a 
running  man,  granted,"  replied  the 
other,  "  but  the  sentiment  of  life  is 
wanting ;  it  is  a  well-formed  figure 
shaped  in  the  received  action  of  fast 
running,  not  an  eager,  breathless  being, 
straining  every  nerve  to  win  a  race." 

"  Bah  !  "  growled  Plon,  who  did  not 
care  for  any  art-criticism  except  his 
own.  "  You  know  nothing  about  it, 
Leon,  you  who  spend  your  life  paint- 
ing pretty  things  like  that," — pointing 
his  ash-stick  at  a  woman  passing  in  the 
street.  "  I  tell  you  he  is  the  best  pupil 
I  ever  had  and  this  is  the  best  thing 
he  has  yet  done." 

"  It  is  a  good  deal  the  fault  of  the  life 
he  leads,"  said  Carrolin,  pursuing  his 
own  reflections :  "  he  makes  no  friends, 
has  no  pleasures,  goes  nowhere,  sees 
nobody.  Why,  all  Paris — all  the  world, 
for  him — lies  for  six  days  out  of  seven 
between  the  four  walls  of  your  studio, 
and  the  seventh  he  spends  worshipping 
some  marble  god  or  goddess  in  the 
Louvre.  That  is  all  his  life." 

"  And  a  very  good  life  too,"  rejoined 
his  companion  testily.  "  That  is  the 
way  that  an  artist  worth  the  name 
should  live.  If  they  all  tried  to  be 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.          29 

miserable  hybrids  of  men  of  the  world, 
or  men  of  pleasure,  and  artists,  well — 
there  would  be  more  bad  work  than 
there  is  already." 

Carrolin  smiled  good  humoredly,  and 
taking  leave  of  his  irascible  friend  left 
the  cafe  on  his  homeward  way.  Plon 
was  wrong  though,  he  said  to  himself ; 
for  men  were  not  intended  to  be 
hermits,  and  artists  were  but  men  after 
all. 

Moreover,  he  doubted  that  to  be 
wholly  absorbed  in  one  idea  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  others  was  conducive 
to  greatness  ;  for,  while  she  is  a  jealous 
mistress,  and  reveals  her  secrets  only 
to  those  who  patiently  woo  her,  art  is 
but  the  presentment  of  life — and  was 
it  possible  for  a  man  to  become  a 
great  artist  who  avoided  contact  with 
the  living  beings  whom  he  sought  to 
represent? 

Of  one  thing  at  any  rate  he  was 
sure,  and  that  was  that  "  all  work  and 
no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy  "  ;  and 
he  determined  to  try  and  rouse  Lan- 
thony  to  take  the  same  view.  Very 
likely  it  would  be  no  use,  for  Lan- 
thony  was  as  obstinate — as  obstinate 
as  Plon,  as  obstinate  as  no  one  except 


30          Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

a  very  great  man  has  any  right  to  be, 
as  obstinate  as  no  really  great  man 
ever  is. 

"  I'll  wager  he  is  dining  just  as 
usual  at  Mathieu's  gargote"  he  said 
with  a  shrug  ;  "  well,  it  is  not  there  he 
\vill  dine  to-night." 

He  went  to  Mathieu's  and  stood 
just  inside  the  door  looking  about  the 
room,  much  as  Lanthony  himself  had 
done.  He  spied  him  at  length,  and 
made  straight  for  him. 

"At  last  I  find  you,"  he  exclaimed 
heartily.  "  I  come  to  offer  you  my 
congratulations,  but  I  shall  not  do  so 
here.  Parbleu  !  it  is  not  like  this  one 
fetes  one's  first  success.  You  are  my 
guest  to-night ;  we  will  dine  at  Big- 
non's  and  drink  to  the  'Runner's' 
health,  and  then  we  will  go  and  see 
Farivelle  in  '  Les  Barbiches.' ' 

"  You  are  more  than  kind,"  said 

Lanthony  hesitatingly,  "but "  and 

here  he  looked  at  his  costume,  which, 
it  must  be  confessed,  was  better  suited 
to  Pere  Mathieu's  than  to  the  other 
side  of  the  river. 

"  Bah  !  we  will  take  the  Rue  de  la 
Valliere  in  passing,  and  you  can 
change — there's  lots  of  time.  Come 


Cbe  jf  law  in  tbe  dbarble.  31 

along,"  and  linking  his  arm  in  Lan- 
thony's  he  piloted  him  out  of  the 
room. 

This  little  scene  had  caused  no  small 
excitement  amongst  the  diners  at  the 
adjacent  tables,  for  Carrolin,  the  fa- 
mous Carrolin,  was  known  to  all  of 
them  by  sight.  "  Sac  a  papier"  said 
one,  "  talk  to  me  of  luck !  Silver 
medalist  in  the  morning,  and  invited 
by  Carrolin  in  the  evening." 

"One  can't  get  away  from  that 
blessed  Solitaire  to-day,"  sneered 
another ;  "  he'll  die  of  a  fit  of  so  many 
honors  ! " 

"  And  we  shall  all  have  to  go  into 
mourning,  hey?" 

"  Nasty  stuck-up  beast,"  growled  a 
fourth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHILE  the  two  friends  are  walking 
to  their  dinner,  I  will  do  what  I  can 
to  satisfy  a  curiosity  which  has  some- 
times been  expressed  to  me  about 
Lanthony's  antecedents,  by  stating 
briefly  the  little  I  have  been  able  to 
gather  concerning  his  family  history 
and  early  life.  He  was  a  Belgian  by 
birth,  and  came  of  a  stock  which, 
though  belonging  rather  to  the  middle 
than  the  upper  class,  had  yet  lived  for 
several,  generations  upon  their  own 
land  and  devoted  themselves  to  agri- 
cultural pursuits.  Left  an  orphan 
almost  in  infancy  he  was  brought  up 
by  his  uncle,  the  owner  of  Les  Tou- 
relles,  the  quaint  old  house,  half 
manor,  half  farmhouse,  where  he  had 
been  born. 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble,          33 

Of  course,  as  he  was  afterwards  to 
become  a  celebrated  artist,  it  will  be 
expected  of  me  that  I  should  furnish 
evidence  of  his  precocious  genius. 
But  veracity  compels  me  to  admit  that 
in  his  early  boyhood  he  gave  no  indi- 
cations of  any  taste  or  aptitude  for 
what  in  later  life  became  his  supreme 
preoccupation.  As,  moreover,  he 
showed  himself  to  be  lamentably 
wanting  in  a  turn  for  agriculture,  his 
uncle  decided  that  he  should  follow  a 
commercial  career,  and  to  that  end 
placed  him  at  the  age  of  eighteen  in 
a  house  of  business  at  Li£ge.  During 
a  two  years'  residence  there  he  made 
it  abundantly  clear  that,  if  unfitted 
for  farming,  he  was  still  less  fitted  for 
trade.  Yet  it  was  at  Lie"ge  that  he 
found  his  real  bent  in  life ;  and,  as  so 
many  others  have  done,  he  found  it 
seemingly  by  chance.  He  himself  has 
told  me  the  story. 

He  was  something  of  a  solitaire 
even  in  those  days,  had  few  friends 
and  fewer  amusements.  One  Satur- 
day, a  fete  day,  he  wandered  into  an 
exhibition  for  want  of  something 
better  to  do,  and  this  stray  visit  of  an 
idle  moment  proved  in  reality  the 


34          £be  tflaw  in  tbe  ^Barbie. 

turning-point  in  his  life.  The  pictures 
struck  him  with  wonder  but  left  him 
cold ;  but  when  he  reached  the  sculp- 
ture gallery,  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  what  he  saw,  and  an  interest 
which  he  did  not  seek  to  analyze 
awakened  in  him. 

The  exhibition  boasted  no  originals 
of  any  great  merit,  but  possessed  a 
very  fair  collection  of  casts  from  the 
antique,  and  before  these  Lanthony 
lingered  till  turned  out  by  the  custo- 
dian at  closing  time.  He  returned 
again  and  again,  and  finally  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  his  mind  was  made 
up :  if  it  were  possible  to  learn  to 
make  things  like  those  he  had  seen,  he 
would  learn,  no  matter  when,  where, 
or  how.  He  overcame  his  natural 
shyness,  and  made  inquiries  which  re- 
sulted in  his  entering  as  an  evening 
student  at  the  local  art-school — the 
last  pupil  in  the  lowest  class.  His 
complaint  now  was  that  the  evenings 
were  not  long  enough,  and  that  if 
time  at  the  office-desk  crawled,  before 
his  drawing-board  it  flew. 

The  upshot  of  all  this  was  that  he 
returned  to  Les  Tourelles,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  stormy  interview  with  his 


fflavv  in  tbe  ^Barbie.          35 

uncle  announced  the  plan  he  had  made 
for  himself,  in  a  very  few  words.  He 
said  he  intended  to  go  to  Paris  and 
study  art,  and  neither  threats  nor 
entreaties  could  move  him  from  his 
purpose.  He  was  pecuniarily  inde- 
pendent of  his  uncle,  as  his  mother's 
small  fortune  had  been  left  unre- 
servedly to  him,  and  the  prospect  of 
being  disinherited  by  the  childless  old 
man  who  had  hitherto  regarded  him  as 
his  heir,  weighed  with  him  not  at  all. 
"  Go  your  own  way,  Paul,"  said  his 
uncle  at  last,  "  but  life  out  yonder  is 
not  as  easy  as  you  think,  and  some 
fine  day  you  will  come  back  cap  in 
hand."  Paul  did  come  back,  but  not 
cap  in  hand.  Years  afterwards,  when 
he  was  a  far  richer  man  than  his  uncle 
had  ever  been,  the  old  man  on  his 
death-bed  forgave  him,  and  wished  to 
reinstate  him  as  future  master  of  the 
old  home.  Paul  went  from  Paris  to 
see  him,  and  spoke  kindly  to  him,  for 
he  had  outlived,  and  almost  forgotten, 
the  rancor  which  had  once  existed 
between  them  ;  but  he  would  not  hear 
of  any  alteration  of  his  uncle's  will — 
let  Les  Tourelles  go  to  Cousin  Amelie 
and  her  children ;  he  did  not  want  it ; 


36          £be  3Flaw  in  tbe  dfcatble. 

what  possible  use  could  it  be  to  him  ? 
When  he  had  gone,  the  old  man,  as 
soon  as  he  had  somewhat  recovered 
from  his  amazement  at  Paul's  refusal, 
said  to  his  niece,  "  Did  any  one  ever 
hear  the  like?  I  offer  him  Les  Tou- 
relles,  and  he  refuses  it !  " 

"  He  is  a  great  man  now,  uncle," 
said  Amelie. 

"  Great,  or  little,  he  would  not  take 
Les  Tourelles  !  It  is  not  to  be  under- 
stood." 

Life  had  changed  the  one  man,  and 
approaching  death  the  other,  yet  there 
remained  in  each  points  which  neither 
things  present  nor  things  to  come 
could  alter. 


Paul  left  Les  Tourelles  one  bright 
morning  in  January  while  the  rime 
still  clung  to  the  trees  and  the  ricks 
and  the  quaint  white  towers,  sur- 
mounted by  black  roofs,  which  gave 
the  house  its  name ;  and  any  vague 
regrets  he  felt  at  leaving  the  home 
where  he  had  spent  his  boyhood,  or 
his  aunt  who  loved  him,  and  of  whom 
he  was  really  fond,  were  lost  in  gol- 
den mists  of  expectancy.  His  man- 


fflaw  in  tbc  flBarble.          37 

hood  lay  all  before  him,  and  such  re- 
grets mostly  become  defined  only  after 
the  course  of  years  has  brought  us 
through  hope  to  reality,  and  when  life 
has  taught  us  that  some  of  its  less  re- 
garded gifts  are  perhaps  its  greatest 
treasures.  Those  early  days  which 
in  our  haste  to  begin  we  found  so 
slow  in  passing,  what  would  we  not 
give  to  recall  them,  even  for  an  hour, 
as  we  stand  panting  on  the  hill-top 
whither  our  winding  road  has  led  us  ? 
Those  dead  faces,  homely  enough,  per- 
haps, that  were  with  us  in  our  child- 
hood, is  there  any  beauty  on  earth  to 
compare  with  the  lost  look  of  their 
patient  kindliness? 

Arrived  in  Paris  he  entered  at  Cos- 
sac's  studio,  in  the  Rue  Panache,  to 
which  he  had  been  recommended  by 
his  master  at  Liege,  and  rented  a  small 
room  in  an  adjoining  street.  He  was 
unremitting  in  his  work  and  wholly 
wrapped  up  in  it.  He  did  not  find  his 
life  as  difficult  from  a  pecuniary  point 
of  view  as  his  uncle  had  hoped.  But 
then  he  was  content  with  very  little : 
the  studio  was  his  home,  and  his  art 
was  his  work  and  play  alike.  They 
did  not  think  much  of  him  at  Cossac's 


38          Gbe  JFlaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

— his  fellow-students  considered  him  a 
wooden-headed  provincial  dolt,  and  his 
master,  who  ran  that  so-called  fab- 
rique  de  nouveautfe,  had  so  little  sym- 
pathy with  his  Greek  ideals  that  he 
found  it  hard  to  admit  his  real  talent. 
He  might  have  sought  surroundings 
more  to  his  taste,  and  training  more 
in  accordance  with  his  faith,  but 
he  was  new  to  Paris  and  did  not 
want  to  waste  time  in  making  inquiries, 
nor  to  lose  the  opening  he  already 
had. 

It  so  chanced  that  Le"on  Carrolin 
was  still  an  occasional  visitor  at  Cos- 
sac's  and  he  was  much  struck  with 
Lanthony's  work.  He  made  acquaint- 
ance with  the  lad,  and  came  to  take 
an  interest  in  him  personally.  He  ad- 
mired his  stolid  persistence  in  the  face 
of  difficulties,  his  whole-heartedness 
about  his  trade,  and  understood, 
blagueur  though  he  was  himself,  the 
young  fellow's  sparsely  worded  enthu- 
siasms. He  saw  very  clearly  that  Cos- 
sac's  was  not  the  place  for  him,  so  one 
fine  day  he  went  and  told  Plon  that 
there  was  a  pupil  after  his  own  pagan 
heart  wasting  his  time  and  talents  at 
Cossac's,  and  advised  him  to  go  and 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          39 

see  his  work.  Plon  "  poohed  "  and 
"  bah-ed,"  and  went — which  resulted 
in  his  taking  forcible  possession  of 
Lanthony,  who  thenceforward  worked 
under  him. 


CHAPTER   III. 

CARROLIN  and  Lanthony  had  fin- 
ished their  dinner,  a  dinner  the  excel- 
lence of  which  had  been  completely 
thrown  away  upon  the  younger  man. 
"And  now,"  said  Carrolin,  filling  his 
and  his  companion's  glass,  "let  us 
toast  your  success." 

"It  is  a  very  small  success,"  mur- 
mured Lanthony,  flushing  with  pleas- 
ure. 

"  Walking  consists  of  steps,  my 
friend,"  rejoined  the  other;  "we  begin 
by  doing  great  little  things,  and  if  we 
persevere,  we  end  by  doing  little  great 
ones.  But  whatever  fame  may  come  to 
us  in  course  of  time,  nothing  is  ever 
half  so  sweet  as  our  first  success." 

Lanthony  stared  to  hear  such  talk 
from  the  man  who  was  allowed  to  be 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          41 

the  first  painter  of  the  day  in  his  own 
line,  and  who,  moreover,  did  not  deny 
his  claim  to  the  title. 

"  If  you  will  let  a  friend  and  brother- 
artist  advise  you,  Lanthony,"  contin- 
ued Carrolin,  in  a  brisker  tone,  "you 
will  now  leave  Plon's  and  start  on  your 
own  account.  No  better  school  for 
you  while  you  needed  one,  but  you 
have  been  in  leading  strings  long 
enough — too  long,  in  fact,  if  I  may  say 
so." 

If  he  expected  a  rebuff,  or  a  dis- 
claimer, he  was  pleasantly  disap- 
pointed, for  Lanthony  had  already 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  over  a  dis- 
used room  in  the  house  in  which  he 
lived  in  the  Rue  de  la  Valliere,  as  a 
studio.  It  was  admirably  suited  for 
the  purpose,  he  said,  was  large,  airy,, 
and  had  capital  light,  and  as  it  was 
built  on  a  return  from  the  main  build- 
ing, the  necessary  top-light  would  be  a 
mere  bagatelle  which  could  be  easily 
arranged  with  his  landlord. 

Carrolin  professed  himself  delighted, 
and  then,  changing  the  subject,  began 
to  point  out  various  celebrities  who 
happened  that  night  to  be  dining  in 
the  restaurant.  The  room  had  thinned 


42          tlbe  JFlaw  In  tbe 

out,  for  they  had  arrived  late,  and 
eaten  their  meal  in  leisurely  fashion, 
but  several  tables  were  still  occu- 
pied. 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  there  with 
the  pale  face  and  pointed  beard,  with 
violets  in  his  button-hole  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Lanthony,  "what  a 
striking  head  !  Who  is  he?  " 

"That  is  Victor  de  Clavieres,  the 
critic,  who  has  given  the  '  Runner  '  a 
very  favorable  notice,  in  his  article  on 
the  sculpture  section." 

Then,  catching  de  Clavieres'  eye,  he 
signed  to  him  to  come  to  them.  De 
Clavieres  rose  and  came  across  the 
room,  and  Carrolin  introduced  him  to 
Lanthony,  whom  he  congratulated  in 
a  few  kindly  and  well-chosen  words  on 
his  success. 

"  You  are  feting  our  rising  sculptor 
to-night  ?  "  he  said,  "  and  how  do  you 
propose  to  finish  the  evening,  Leon?  " 

"  We  thought  of  going  to  see 
Farivelle."  .  .  . 

"  Oh !  that  old  farce  is  rubbish," 
answered  the  other.  "  You  had  better 
come  with  me  and  see  Le  Fagon  in 
'  Une  Vaine  Passion.'  You  have  seen 
her,  of  course,  monsieur,"  he  added, 


fflaw  in  tbc  flBarble.          43 

turning  to  Lanthony,  who  confessed 
that  he  never  had. 

De  Clavieres  in  his  triple  quality  of 
Parisian,  critic,  and  man  of  the  world, 
prided  himself  on  never  being  aston- 
ished at  anything,  but  he  found  himself 
vaguely  wondering  what  manner  of 
man  this  could  be  who  had  lived  for  five 
whole  years  in  Paris  and  yet  had  never 
seen  Le  Fagon  !  " 

"  Well,  she  is  worth  seeing,  and  so 
is  the  piece  she  is  playing.  I'm  bound 
to  say  that,  for  I  wrote  it,  you  know," 
he  said,  laughing.  "  I  have  three  stalls, 
and  two  of  them  are  at  your  service. 
The  third  I  keep  for  myself.  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Delighted,"  exclaimed  Carrolin,  as 
indeed  he  was. 

"  We  had  better  be  moving,"  said  de 
Clavieres,  looking  at  his  watch  ;  "  we 
are  late  already." 

When  they  reached  the  Theatre 
Splendide,  the  then  scene  of  Madeleine 
Le  Fagon's  triumphs,  the  curtain  had 
just  gone  down  on  the  first  act,  and  she 
had  yielded  to  the  tumultuous  applause 
which  demanded  her  re-appearance. 

Lanthony  was  half  dazed  by  the 
lights,  the  noise,  and  the  excitement 


44          Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  flbarble. 

about  him,  but  as  he  stumbled  into  his 
stall  over  the  feet  of  those  already 
seated,  he  had  a  momentary  vision  of 
a  single  figure  upon  the  stage,  the  fig- 
ure of  a  woman  in  ordinary  evening 
dress,  a  spray  of  pomegranate  flowers 
twisted  into  her  dark  hair,  her  hands 
loosely  clasped  in  front  of  her,  as,  smil- 
ing the  while,  she  swayed  her  small 
head,  with  a  royal  indifference  to  the 
plaudits  which  greeted  her.  Only  a 
moment,  then  she  vanished.  She  did 
not  make  her  exit  at  the  side,  in  the 
usual  way,  but  merely  took  one  step 
backwards,  and  the  curtain  descended 
slowly  in  front  of  her. 

The  last  thing  he  consciously  saw, 
and  the  first  thing  he  had  seen,  were 
her  arms.  And  now  that  shutting  his 
eyes  he  tried  to  recall  the  picture  as  a 
whole,  all  he  could  distinctly  realize 
about  it  were  those  arms — those  arms 
and  the  impression  of  a  luminous, 
embracing,  impersonal,  impenetrable 
smile. 

His  companions  had  remained  stand- 
ing, and  were  cheering  with  the  rest, 
but  she  did  not  come  in  front  again. 

Men  got  up  and  went  out,  or  moved 
about  the  corridors  and  paid  visits  to 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.          45 

the  different  boxes.  The  house  was 
very  full  and  in  gala-array,  but  that 
was  always  so  on  Le  Fagon's  nights, 
for  all  that  was  smartest  and  best 
dressed,  wittiest  and  most  beautiful, 
most  celebrated,  or  notorious  in  Paris, 
flocked  to  see  and  hear  her. 

De  Clavieres  had  left  his  seat,  but 
the  other  two  remained  where  they 
were,  Lanthony  lending  but  a  half 
attentive  ear  to  Carrolin's  amusing 
epitome  of  the  various  beauties  and 
celebrities  present,  his  eyes  fixed  stol- 
idly upon  the  point  in  the  curtain 
behind  which  that  astonishing  vision 
had  disappeared.  Five  minutes  more 
and  she  would  be  there  again,  and  he 
would  be  able  to  study  the  line  and 
curve  of  those  arms,  and,  as  it  were, 
brand  them  on  his  brain. 

On  coming  back  de  Clavieres  told 
them  he  had  seen  Le  Fagon,  with 
whom  he  was  engaged  to  sup  that 
night  at  her  house  in  the  Avenue  des 
Champs  Elysees,  and  that  she  had  bid 
him  ask  Carrolin  to  come  also. 

"  I  told  her,"  he  went  on,  "  that  you 
had  a  friend  with  you,  and  who  the 
friend  was  ;  so  then  she  invited  him. 
too." 


46          Ebe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

He  took  their  acceptance  for  granted, 
for  those  who  had  the  good  fortune  to 
receive  invitations  from  Le  Fagon 
never  refused  them — they  were  as  a 
royal  command.  Carrolin  rubbed  his 
hands  together  in  silent  satisfaction  ; 
his  plan  for  Lanthony  was  running  on 
wheels.  No  one,  he  held,  could  see 
Le  Fagon  de  prh  and  remain  indif- 
ferent to  her  either  as  an  artist  or  a 
man.  Of  course  it  was  a  risk,  as  few 
had  better  reason  to  know  than  him- 
self, but  he  counted  on  his  own  experi- 
ence to  enable  him  to  intervene  at  the 
proper  moment  and  play  the  part  of 
Providence  to  his  friend. 

A  bell  rang  somewhere  in  the  back 
places  of  the  stage,  and  was  followed 
by  the  customary  three  knocks,  and 
the  curtain  went  up  for  the  second  act 
which,  as  those  who  have  seen  "  Une 
Vaine  Passion "  will  remember,  con- 
tains the  most  striking  scene  of  that 
forcible  piece.  A  silence  settled  over 
the  throng  who  a  few  minutes  before 
had  been  laughing  and  talking,  and  it 
grew  denser  as  the  action  progressed. 
There  was  no  applause  to  mark  the 
supreme  rendering  of  certain  situa- 
tions, and  this  less  from  the  fact  that 


fflaw  in  ibe  Garble.          47 

Le  Fagon  discountenanced  any  such 
interruption,  than  from  an  overmaster- 
ing absorption  which  held  the  multi- 
tude as  though  with  a  spell.  Every 
eye  was  riveted  on  the  stage,  or  rather, 
upon  one  figure  there,  for  no  one 
counted  beside  her — the  rest  were 
merely  necessary  adjuncts.  Step  by 
step  she  led  them  through  all  the  vary- 
ing notes  of  passion  sounded  in  that 
wonderful  act — enchantment,  doubt, 
fear,  rage,  despair,  and  mere  weariness, 
till  they  forgot  the  actress  and  her  art, 
and  felt  as  though  this  were  no  well- 
played  tragedy  at  which  they  were 
gazing,  but  a  living  page  torn  from 
the  book  of  life.  And  this,  I  take  it, 
is  a  triumph  of  histrionic  art  which  no 
one  but  she  has  ever  attained. 

At  the  end  of  the  closing  scene 
between  Madame  de  Lapresnel  and 
her  lover  (whose  part  was  played  by 
Vibecq)  the  curtain  fell  upon  a  dead 
silence  in  the  house,  which  continued 
for  a  moment  or  two  while  the  audi- 
ence adjusted,  as  it  were,  the  relative 
positions  of  the  two  worlds,  and  awoke 
to  the  real  one  again.  Then  they  rose 
in  one  universal  transport  of  enthu- 
siasm, men  and  women  alike  forgetting 


48          Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

themselves  in  the  personality  of  the 
woman  who  had  lately  stood  before 
them  and  played  upon  their  heart- 
strings as  upon  a  familiar  instrument  ; 
and  shouts  of  "  Le  Fagon !  Le  Fa- 
gon  ! "  burst  like  a  single  cry  from  a 
thousand  throats. 

The  curtain  went  up  once,  twice,  and 
showed  her  standing  motionless,  and 
unmoved  by  the  frenzy  of  applause, 
as  she  had  been  by  the  tears  she  had 
drawn,  the  emotions  she  had  excited, 
the  sweet  and  bitter  remembrances 
she  had  stirred,  or  the  lesson  she  had 
perchance  taught — a  smile  upon  her 
lips. 

When  it  was  all  over,  Carrolin, 
glancing  at  Lanthony,  saw  him  sitting 
as  one  in  a  dream,  his  eyes  staring  at 
the  exact  spot  where  she  had  been 
standing.  He  was  the  only  man  in  all 
that  vast  assembly  who  had  neither 
moved  nor  spoken ;  he  was  passion- 
ately striving  to  imprint  that  fleeting 
vision  upon  his  brain.  Carrolin,  how- 
ever, took  his  preoccupation  to  have 
another  sense,  and  said  to  himself  that 
such  mute  tribute  to  her  genius  was 
one  which  Madeleine  Le  Fagon,  with 
all  her  real  or  professed  indifference 


Cbe  tflaw  in  tbc  flbarble.          49 

to  appreciation,  could  not  despise.  He 
waited  a  moment,  and  then  said, — 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

"Men  Dien  !  what  arms!  "was  the 
reply. 

Carrolin  made  a  movement  of  impa- 
tience. Would  anything  ever  waken 
this  carver  of  stones  into  a  man  ? 
The  most  beautiful  woman  in  Paris 
was  for  him  but  a  collection  of  curves, 
the  exhibition  of  the  finest  achieve- 
ment of  dramatic  art  but  a  series 
of  varied  possibilities  for  plastic  pose ! 

In  the  third  act  Le  Fagon  appeared 
only  in  the  short  scene  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  when  that  scene  was  con- 
cluded the  theatre  rapidly  thinned. 

De  Clavieres  did  not  stay  to  witness 
the  scant  courtesy  evidenced  to  his 
piece  by  the  general  exodus,  for  di- 
rectly she  had  left  the  stage  he  rose 
himself,  and  beckoning  his  companions, 
led  them  out  by  a  side  door.  But  he 
knew  all  about  it,  and  moreover 
thought  it  natural :  people  had  come 
to  see  Le  Fagon,  and  once  they  had 
seen  the  last  of  her,  nothing  else  mat- 
tered. 

As  the  three  men  were  walking  to 


50          £be  jf law  in  tbe  flbarble. 

the  house  in  the  Champs  Elyse"es,  a 
carriage  whirled  past  them.  Carrolin 
and  de  Clavieres  lifted  their  hats. 

"  That  is  Madame  Le  Fagon,"  said 
Carrolin  to  Lanthony. 

"  Heavens  what  a  woman  !  "  burst 
out  de  Clavieres,  after  a  second's  si- 
lence ;  "  to  see  her,  to  hear  her,  ex- 
plains it  all,  the  folly  of  men  about 
her,  and  the  trouble  she  has  caused 
them." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  were  not  to  be  in- 
cluded among  the  foolish  or  the  sor- 
rowful ;  but  Carrolin  knew  differently, 
and  he  knew  something  else  besides. 

"  Sometimes,"  he  said,  half  to  him- 
self— "  sometimes  one  can  almost  be- 
lieve it  was  worth  it  all — just  to  have 
seen  and  heard  her." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  outer  en- 
trance of  the  hotel  now,  and  walking 
across  a  strip  of  garden  were  ushered 
through  a  spacious  hall  and  up  a  broad 
staircase  to  the  apartments  on  the  first 
floor.  At  the  door  of  a  small  room 
leading  out  of  a  large  salon  Madame 
Le  Fagon  stood  talking  to  one  of  her 
guests.  As  our  trio  entered,  she  gave 
them  her  hand,  smiling — to  Lanthony 
amongst  the  rest,  scarcely  looking  at 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          51 

him  as  she  did  so;  and  almost  imme- 
diately afterwards  she  led  the  way  to 
the  supper-room.  It  was  a  small  party 
(she  hated  a  crowd) :  Madame  de  Le- 
tort,  grande  dame,  wit  and  ex-beauty, 
a  pretty  young  cousin  of  Madeleine's, 
an  elderly  foreign  diplomatist,  an 
Austrian  Archduke,  and  Martelys  the 
painter. 

As  they  sat  down,  Madeleine,  turn- 
ing to  her  cousin,  said  laughingly, — 

"You  will  stay  up  just  long  enough 
after  supper,  Rose,  to  play  us  that 
Gavotte  from  Mignon,  and  then  to 
bed,  or  you  will  be  late  to-morrow 
morning,  and  the  Conservatoire  will 
never  let  you  come  to  me  again." 

The  girl  answered  with  a  moue  and 
a  smiling  disclaimer,  and  conversation 
became  general. 

If  Lanthony  had 'known  more  of  the 
world,  many  curious  differences  be- 
tween this  entertainment  and  the 
ordinary  run  of  festivities  at  the 
houses  of  popular  actresses  might 
have  struck  him — notably,  the  refine- 
ment which  sobered  and  balanced  the 
pervading  luxury,  and  the  tone  and 
range  of  the  conversation.  But  all 
this  was  lost  upon  him,  for  he  saw 


52          Ube  fflaw  in  tbe  jflfcarble. 

nothing,  and  could  think  of  nothing 
but  his  hostess,  as  she  sat  there — her 
gleaming  arms,  the  proud  yet  simple 
forte  of  her  head,  and  the  slow  wonder 
of  her  smile.  He  was  placed  between 
Carrolin  and  Martelys,  with  both  of 
whom  he  was  intimate,  and  who  were 
so  occupied  in  talking  to  each  other 
that  his  silence  passed  unnoticed.  The 
fixity  of  his  gaze  might  perhaps  have 
jarred  upon  Madeleine,  who  had  ob- 
served it,  as  she  did  all  else  about  her, 
but  for  the  distinctly  impersonal  char- 
acter of  its  admiration.  As  it  was,  she 
was  amused  and  even  faintly  interested 
by  it,  and  at  length  looking  full  at  him 
with  those  strange,  half-veiled  eyes  of 
hers,  she  said  in  a  low,  clear  voice, 
"  M.  Lanthony,  I  drink  to  the  health 
of  your  '  Runner ' — may  he  win  his 
race  ! "  lifting  her  glass,  with  a  smile, 
as  she  spoke. 

To  Paul  it  was  as  if  the  "  Diane 
Chasseresse,"  or  some  other  glorious 
abstraction  among  his  marble  divinities, 
had  spoken  to  him  in  human  speech 
from  her  pedestal.  He  started,  blushed 
crimson,  and  muttered  an  inaudible 
acknowledgment.  Madeleine  resumed 
her  conversation  with  Madame  de 


fflaw  in  tbe  jflfcarble.          53 

Letort,  and  shortly  after,  supper  being 
over,  the  party  rose  and  drifted  into 
the  next  room.  It  was  lit  only  by  a 
single  green  bronze  lamp  of  antique 
shape,  hanging  from  the  ceiling  ;  there 
were  two  or  three  small  pomegranate- 
trees  or  bushes  flowering  in  tubs  about 
the  room,  and  a  piano  in  one  corner,  at 
which  de  Clavieres  sat  down  to  ac- 
company Mademoiselle  Rose.  The 
girl,  taking  her  violin  from  its  case, 
played  first  the  desired  Gavotte,  and 
then  at  a  whispered  word  from  de 
Clavieres  broke  into  a  slow,  wailing 
Polish  melody. 

Madeleine  stood  leaning  against  the 
piano,  slowly  fanning  herself  with  a 
big  curly  fan  of  grey  ostrich  plumes, 
her  other  hand  hanging  down  by  her 
side.  Lanthony  stood  by  the  further 
•door  facing  her,  and  gazing  at  her  in 
entranced  observation.  Her  eyes  rested 
on  his  for  a  moment,  as  if  drawn  by 
his  gaze,  then  with  a  little  smile  in 
which  amusement  struggled  with  indif- 
ference, she  moved  slowly  across  the 
room  to  where  he  stood. 

"  Man  dne  parle — meme,  il  parle 
bien"  said  Carrolin  to  her  as  she 
passed. 


54          Cbe  fflaw  In  tbe  /Barbie. 

"  Seldom,  you  mean,"  she  retorted 
over  her  shoulder. 

She  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  in  the 
embrasure  of  a  window  close  to  where 
Lanthony  stood,  and  motioned  him  to 
a  seat  beside  her. 

"  You  must  feel  very  proud  and 
happy  to-night,  M.  Lanthony,"  she 
said — her  voice  was  "  always  music, 
whatever  the  words,"  as  some  one  had 
once  said,  and  if  she  told  you  that  you 
were  proud  and  happy — well,  for  the 
moment  you  believed  you  were ;  that, 
or  anything  else  she  said.  "  For  this 
is  your  first  success,  is  it  not  ?  It 
must  be  very  nice  to  feel  proud  of  one- 
self," she  added  musingly. 

Lanthony  plucked  at  his  courage 
with  both  hands,  and  answered,  "  It  is 
curious  to  hear  you  speak  of  petty  suc- 
cesses, madame,  you — you,  whose  fame 
is  what  it  is." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
answered, — 

"  You  would  care  for  that  ?  I  cannot 
understand  it.  People  go  to  see  me 
act  because  they  have  been  told  to,  or 
because  they  have  nothing  else  to  do, 
and  they  applaud  for  much  the  same 
reason.  It  is  nothing  to  me." 


fflaw  in  tbe  flbarble.          55 

Lanthony  stared  at  her  in  amaze, 
and  then — for  the  humanizing  of  this 
man  had  already  begun,  and  he  had 
commenced  half-consciously  to  realize 
what  such  power  over  others  meant — 
he  said  stoutly, — 

"  I  should  care  very  little  for  the  ap- 
plause of  an  ignorant  crowd  who  follow 
each  other's  enthusiasms  like  a  flock  of 
sheep ;  but  to  command  the  praise  of 
those  who  know  and  can  choose,  and  to 
teach  the  rest  to  know  and  choose  also, 
to  make  blind  eyes  see — that  must  be 
a  fine  thing,  I  think."  His  face  was 
flushed,  and  his  eyes  glowed  as  he 
spoke. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  or 
two  in  silence,  smiling,  and  her  eyes 
softened  a  little  as  she  replied, — 

"  Ah  !  you  are  very  young  !  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  agree  with  you,  but  I 
don't.  You  see,  even  if  one  cares 
about  it  at  all,  it  is  such  a  little,  such  a 
very  little  thing  in  comparison  with  all 
the  trouble  it  costs  ;  and  what  does  it 
all  amount  to  ?  One  must  live,  and 
living  means  quite  a  number  of  things 
according  as  people  are  made.  To  me 
it  means  ease,  luxury,  beautiful  sur- 
roundings, in  a  word,  money.  The 


56          £be  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

forests  of  trees  hung  with  golden  pieces 
for  fruit  were  all  cut  down  ages  before 
I  was  born.  One  must  make  one's  life 
what  one  wants  it  to  be,  and  to  do 
that  one  must  work.  But  ct  la  longue 
it  just  comes  to  this;  my  cook  has  to 
cook  my  dinner  and  I — well,  I  have  to 
serve  up  dainty  dishes  of  another  sort 
to  suit  many  masters.  On  the  whole, 
I  think  my  cook  has  the  best  of  it  !  " 

"  But  art  ?  "  gasped  Lanthony. 

"  Oh  !  that,  monsieur,  is  a  very  wide 
question  for  those  who  understand  it, 
but,  frankly,  I  am  outside  it.  And 
there,  too,  my  cook  has  the  advantage, 
for  he  is  an  artist  in  his  way,  whereas  I 
am  not." 

Carrolin,  who  had  been  watching  the 
two,  judged  from  the  expression  of 
Lanthony's  face  at  this  juncture  that 
his  education  had  progressed  far 
enough  for  one  evening,  and  got  up  to 
take  his  leave. 

"You  come  in  the  nick  of  time," 
said  Madeleine  as  he  reached  her.  "  I 
have  been  giving  Monsieur  Lanthony 
the  benefit  of  my  views  on  art.  Take 
him  away  before  I  utter  further  un- 
welcome heresies — or  truths.  Indeed, 
I  wish  all  the  others  would  follow 


Gbe  tflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          57 

your  good  example  and  go  away  too, 
for  I  am  tired.  Au  revoir,  Monsieur 
Lanthony ;  I  am  generally  at  home 
between  five  and  seven  on  Tuesday 
afternoons.  Bon  soir,  Carrolin  ;  I  shall 
see  you  again  one  of  these  days." 

It  was  a  lovely  night,  and  Carrolin 
said  he  would  walk  as  far  as  the  Rue 
de  la  Valliere  with  his  friend.  Cross- 
ing the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  he  stopped 
to  light  a  cigar,  and  Lanthony  leaned 
idly  over  the  parapet  and  looked  at  the 
broken  river  with  its  dark  shadows  and 
reflections  of  lights  swirling  along  un- 
derneath. 

Neither  had  spoken  since  they  left 
the  house,  and  during  their  silent  walk 
Carrolin  had  begun  to  feel  qualms  as 
to  his  fitness  for  the  role  he  had  cast 
for  himself  of  playing  Providence  to 
his  friend.  His  scheme  for  making  a 
man  of  Lanthony  might,  he  feared, 
prove  only  too  successful ;  so  now  he 
broke  the  silence  with, — 

"  Encore  un  avis,  Lanthony.  I 
wouldn't  go  there  too  often,  if  I  were 
you.  She  asked  you,  I  know  (she 
doesn't  ask  every  one,  by  the  way),  and 
if  you  go,  she  will  be  very  kind  and 
charming  to  you — oh  !  but  very  charm- 


58          "ttbe  JFlaw  In  tbe 

ing — for  she  often  takes  a  capricious 
interest  just  in  the  outsides  of  people, 
but  only  for  a  little  while.  When  she 
gets  to  know  them,  and  they  her,  she 
ceases  to  take  any  interest ;  she  says 
then  they  are  all  too  much  alike.  So 
she  plays  with  them  and  smiles  at  them 
until  she  has  got  their  heart  in  the 
hollow  of  her  soft  white  hand,  then  she 
squeezes  it  dead  and  throws  them  back 
the  empty  husk." 

He  spoke  with  unusual  bitterness, 
and  Lanthony,  glancing  at  him,  saw 
that  his  face  was  very  pale. 

"  You  are  young,"  he  went  on,  "  and 
you  do  not  know — how  should  you  ? 
But  I  know,  I,  and  plenty  more  besides. 
She  loves  money  and,  though  she 
would  deny  it,  she  admires  brains  and 
success.  But  riches  cannot  tempt  her, 
and  neither  fame  nor  passion  nor  love 
can  win  her.  Many  men  have  tried 
pour  le  bon  motif — and  otherwise. 
There  was  that  poor  young  Russian, 
for  instance,  who,  with  half  Paris  at 
his  feet,  lived  for  nothing  else  for  two 
whole  years  but  the  hope  of  marrying 
her,  and  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  he 
was  found  dead  one  morning  in  his 
rooms  in  the  Rue  Royale.  He  had 


fflaw  in  tbc  flbarble.          59 

shot  himself  through  the  head  ;  when 
they  told  Madeleine,  she  only  smiled. 

"  Then  there  was  a  man  known  to  us 
both,  known  to  all  the  world,  whose 
devotion  would  have  made  any  woman 
proud.  She  played  with  him,  smiled 
at  him,  and  sent  him  away.  There 
was  another  too.  .  .  It  is  chilly  here," 
he  said  suddenly,  "  let  us  move  on. 
This  man  was  a  young  fool  with  noth- 
ing much  to  recommend  him,  save  an 
immense  power  of  loving.  Well,  he 
has  wasted  his  life  in  loving  her  and 
her  only.  He  knows  it  is  no  use,  and 
he  knows  that  the  power  to  do  great 
things  has  all  left  him,  through  her, 
that  all  the  world  looks  different  from 
what  it  did  before  he  met  her,  and  he 
knows  that  love  for  a  beautiful  woman 
can  be  death  in  life." 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Carrolin," 
said  Lanthony  with  evident  feeling, 
"  but  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

Carrolin  looked  at  him  curiously,  as 
if  trying  to  read  his  thought,  and  then 
said  lightly,  "  Oh  1  you  are  a  very  fine 
fellow,  friend  Paul,  but  you  are  but  a 
man  like  the  rest  of  us." 

Lanthony  looked  back  at  him  and 
then  fairly  burst  out  laughing. 


60          Gbe  jflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

"  But,  my  dear  Carrolin,  this  woman 
is,  can  be,  no  more  to  me  than  that 
star  which  twinkles  up  there.  She  is 
simply  the  most  beautiful  woman  I 
ever  saw,  and  I  would  give  ten  years 
of  my  life  to  be  able  to  reproduce  her 
in  marble.  For  the  rest,  it  simply 
does  not  exist  for  me,  and  she  can  no 
more  touch  me  than  I  her." 

"  Oh !  we  all  begin  like  that,"  re- 
joined his  friend  ;  "  unfortunately,  we 
don't  stay  there,  for  we  come  to  hope 
that  we  may  be  successful  where  so 
many  better  men  have  failed.  Some 
fine  day  in  one  way  or  another  we  try 
to  reach  the  star,  but  we  never  get 
there  ;  we  either  die  of  our  fall  or  drag 
our  aches  and  bruises  about  with  us  to 
the  end  of  our  days.  She  cannot  help 
it,"  he  added,  with  a  tardy  tribute  to 
loyalty  ;  "  she  is  made  that  way." 

"  I  shall  never  want  to  reach  the 
star,"  said  Lanthony,  looking  up  at  it 
as  he  spoke. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LANTHONY  was  strong  in  his  own 
conceit,  like  many  another  whose 
youthful  amour  of  self-confidence  is  as 
yet  unpierced  by  the  rude  thrusts  of 
life  and  experience.  He  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  world,  and  but  little  of  him- 
self, so  he  thought  that  he  knew  enough 
of  the  first  to  serve  his  turn,  and  be- 
lieved that  his  own  nature  held  no 
secrets  for  him. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  he  did 
not  act  upon  Carrolin's  well-meant 
advice,  hardly,  indeed,  gave  it  a  second 
thought ;  for,  as  the  latter  had  shown, 
the  experience  of  others  seldom  pro- 
tects us  from  incurring  our  own  pains, 
nor  are  we  apt  to  recognize  the  wisdom 
of  good  counsels  until  we  have  proved 
the  folly  of  disregarding  them.  It  is 


62          Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe 

not  merely  death  which  separates  a 
man  from  his  fellows ;  men  live,  as 
well  as  die,  alone,  and  the  blindness  in 
which  all  begin,  and  all  end,  clings  to 
many  through  the  days  which  inter- 
vene. 


Lanthony  had  been  repeatedly  to  the 
house  in  the  Champs  Elysees ;  as 
often,  indeed,  as  he  considered  it  pos- 
sible to  avail  himself  of  the  general  in- 
vitation extended  to  him.  He  had 
had  but  little  conversation  with  Made- 
leine on  those  occasions,  but  talk  was 
not  what  he  had  gone  there  for ;  he 
had  gone  simply  to  gaze  his  fill  at  her, 
to  learn  by  repeated  observation  the 
lines,  the  curves,  the  proportions  of 
that  matchless  form.  When  he  had, 
as  it  were,  learned  them  by  heart,  why, 
then  he  would  go  no  more  ;  for  what 
was  Madeleine  Le  Fagon  to  him  ?  So 
he  went  week  after  week,  and  looked 
and  looked  at  that  face  and  figure,  in 
the  room  where  the  pomegranates  grew 
and  bloomed  ;  studied  her  in  every 
light,  from  every  angle,  much  as  a  man 
threatened  with  the  living  night  oi 
blindness  seeks  to  store  his  mind  with 


Gbe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          63 

images  of  loved  things  that  soon  he 
shall  look  upon  no  more.  Then  he 
went  home  and  shut  his  eyes,  and  saw 
it  all  again,  and  thought  it  out,  and,  so 
to  speak,  modelled  it  in  his  mind ;  and 
then  one  day  he  began  to  give  it  tang- 
ible shape.  He  modelled  her  hands 
and  arms,  her  throat,  the  contour  of 
her  head,  the  long,  suave,  yet  firm  lines 
of  her  form,  one  by  one  separately, 
over  and  over  again.  And  then  he  set 
to  work  to  piece  them  all  together, 
and  started  on  a  study  of  the  entire 
figure. 

A  rage  of  work  was  on  him  ;  he  never 
left  his  studio  except  to  sleep,  he  did 
not  even  make  a  sensible  break  for  the 
meals  which  were  brought  to  him 
there,  but  ate  standing  at  his  model- 
ling board,  or  walking  about  the  room 
looking  at  and  considering  his  work 
in  different  lights  and  aspects.  He 
denied  admittance  to  all  who  came  to 
his  studio ;  Mathieu's  knew  him  no 
more,  nor  Plon's  studio,  nor  the  Louvre, 
nor  the  house  in  the  Avenue  des 
Champs  Elysees. 

Madeleine  had  got  used  to  seeing 
the  young  man  standing  about  in  some 
corner  of  the  room,  his  eyes  following 


64          Hbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

her  every  movement,  and  on  his  disap- 
pearance missed  him  much  as  one 
might  miss  some  familiar  chair  or  table 
which  one  had  never  consciously  taken 
count  of  until  some  one  removed  it. 
She  vaguely  wondered  what  had  be- 
come of  him  ;  but  he  would  come  back 
again,  of  that  she  was  sure.  As  the 
weeks  went  on,  however,  and  he  did 
not  reappear,  she  said  to  Carrolin,  who 
had  lingered  one  evening  after  the 
other  guests  had  gone, — 

"  Dis,  L£on,  what  has  become  of  your 
sculptor  friend  ?  One  never  sees  him 
these  days." 

"  Did  he  come  here  often  ? "  asked 
Carrolin,  who  jhimself  but  seldom  at- 
tended her  Tuesday  receptions. 

"At  one  time — yes.  He  used  to 
stand  about  silently  and  gaze  at  me 
and  I " 

"  You  ?  Oh  !  you  smiled  at  him," 
he  finished  for  her. 

She  smiled  now,  and  went  on : 
"  There  was  never  any  use  introducing 
him  to  people,  for  he  wouldn't  talk, 
and  I  shouldn't  think  he  enjoyed  him- 
self. But  he  came  again  and  again, 
then  all  of  a  sudden  disappeared  .  .  . 
let  me  see,  three,  four  weeks  ago," 


ttbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          65 

checking  them  off  upon  her  long  white 
fingers. 

Carrolin  seemed  preoccupied  in  his 
own  reflections,  and  he  remembered 
some  proverb  to  the  effect  that  those 
who  run  away  live  to  fight  again. 

"  Well,"  she  queried  again,  "  is  he 
dead,  or  married,  or " 

"  Oh  !  no,"  he  answered  briskly,  ris- 
ing to  go,  "  only  very  busy.  He  is 
hard  at  work  upon  a  statue  which, 
true  to  himself,  he  will  allow  no  one  to 
see.  He  is  one  of  those  happy,  or  un- 
happy men  who  live  for  their  art  alone, 
and  no  beauty  alive  can  compare  in  his 
eyes  with  a  marble  Venus,  no  pleasure 
or  delight  the  world  can  offer  can  com- 
pete with  a  lump  of  clay  and  a  model- 
ling tool." 

He  flattered  himself  as  he  moved 
towards  the  door  that  he  had  stated 
the  position  concisely  and  conclusively. 
As  he  drew  aside  the  portitre,  a  voice 
called  after  him, — 

"A  propos,  Carrolin,  where  is  his 
studio  ?  Rue  de  la  Valliere,  is  it 
not  ?  But  I  forget  the  number." 
Then  as  he  hesitated,  she  added 
with  a  little  laugh,  "  Oh  !  don't  tell 
me,  if  you  have  any  scruples.  I 


66          £be  fflaw  in  tbe  flfcatble. 

can  easily  find  out  from  Martelys  or 
Plon." 

That  laugh  stung  him,  and  he  flung 
back  "  No.  49  "  at  her,  as  he  left  the 
room. 

The  next  afternoon — a  Wednesday 
— Lanthony  was  disturbed  at  his  work 
by  a  low  tap  at  the  door.  It  was  then 
somewhere  between  four  and  five,  and 
the  sound  was  neither  the  thump  fol- 
lowed by  a  grunt,  with  which  the  por- 
ter generally  announced  his  presence, 
nor  the  cheery  rat-tat-tat  affected  by 
his  friends  and  acquaintances.  While 
he  was  wondering  who  it  could  be, 
the  tap  was  repeated. 

"  Put  it  down  outside,"  he  bellowed, 
imagining  it  must  be  the  porter's  wife 
with  some  coffee  he  had  ordered. 

He  was  in  the  ddsJiabille  which  he 
usually  affected  in  his  working  hours  : 
he  wore  a  loose  holland  blouse  over 
his  shirt,  and  the  sleeves  of  both  were 
rolled  up  to  the  elbows,  the  ends  of  his 
trousers  were  drawn  up  and  tucked 
into  his  socks,  and  his  feet  were  shod 
in  a  very  ancient  pair  of  red  leather 
slippers  much  trodden  down  at  heel. 
A  cigarette,  which  had  of  course  gone 
out,  was  between  his  lips,  and  he  was, 


$  law  in  tbe  fl&arble.          67 

moreover,  remarkably  dirty  ;  his  hands 
were  smeared  and  streaked  with  model- 
ling clay,  and  his  blouse,  his  slippers, 
and  even  his  face  and  hair  splashed 
with  little  clots  of  greyish  mud  where 
water  had  lit  upon  the  dust  with  which 
they  were  covered.  He  held  a  bucket 
of  water  in  one  hand,  and  a  sprinkling 
brush  in  the  other. 

The  meek  little  tap  was  again  re- 
peated. 

"  Mille  tonnerres  I  "  he  growled,  as 
he  hastily  chucked  a  cloth  over  the 
figure  he  had  been  at  work  on.  Then 
he  mechanically  picked  up  his  bucket 
and  brush,  and  went  towards  the  door, 
which  he  opened  grudgingly  about  a 
couple  of  inches.  And  then  he  stared 
aghast,  for  the  living  original  of  his 
clay  sketch  stood  before  him. 

"Do  I  disturb  you?"  she  asked, 
smiling,  "or  may  I  come  in?  I  have 
always  wanted  to  see  something  more 
of  your  work,  and  as  Carrolin  told  me 
you  were  engaged  on  a  new  statue,  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity." 

Lanthony  inwardly  anathematized 
his  friend,  as  he  backed  through  the 
door,  bucket  in  hand,  she  following 


68          ^be  fflaw  in  tbe  /fcarble. 

him.  He  put  it  down  in  the  corner,  and 
then,  as  she  stretched  out  her  hand, 
daintily  gloved  in  pearl-grey,  to  him, 
he  put  his  hastily  behind  his  back  with 
such  a  rueful  expression  that  she  burst 
into  a  clear,  ringing  laugh. 

"  Ours  is  a  dirty  trade,  madame,"  he 
said,  also  laughing,  and  holding  up  his 
hands  for  her  inspection.  "And  the 
studio  is  horribly  dirty  too,"  he  added 
in  a  vexed  tone,  as  he  glanced  at  her 
delicately  edged  skirts  trailing  on  the 
boards  of  the  floor,  which  were  dusty 
wherever  they  were  not  muddy.  A 
sculptor's  working  studio  is  not,  and 
cannot  be,  a  very  spick  and  span  or 
orderly  looking  sort  of  place,  but  it 
must  be  confessed  that  Lanthony's 
would  have  taken  the  palm  for  un- 
kemptness  and  dustiness.  It  was  to 
him  a  workshop,  and  nothing  but  a 
workshop. 

"  There  is  dust  on  the  dessous  of 
most  things,"  she  put  in  smiling,  "  if 
one  only  knew." 

"  Mine  is  not  a  show-studio,"  he  said, 
half  wishing,  half  fearing  she  would 
go  ;  "  there  is,  alas  !  really  nothing  to 
see." 

"So  much  the  better,"  she  replied, 


Cbc  jf law  in  tbc  flBarble.  69 

answering  the  first  part  of  his  state- 
ment. "  I  have  seen  enough  of  them 
and  to  spare,  and  can  never  quite  get  rid 
of  the  impression  they  give  me  of  being 
high-class  bric-h-brac  shops." 

She  was  genuinely  interested  for  the 
moment  in  an  aspect  of  life  so  new  to 
her,  as  she  moved  about  the  room 
looking  at  the  sketches  and  models  in 
clay  or  plaster  upon  the  walls  and  on 
the  shelves  and  brackets.  It  was  a 
curious  experience  in  more  ways  than 
one,  for  it  was  somewhat  like  walking 
through  a  miniature  museum  stored 
with  effigies  of  oneself.  Everywhere 
she  was  met  by  reproductions  of  her 
hands,  her  arms  and  shoulders,  the 
contour  and  pose  of  her  head  (with 
the  face  left  blank),  or  sketches  in 
black  and  white  of  various  arrange- 
ments of  drapery  she  had  worn  ;  and, 
as  this  woman  studied  herself  as  she 
did  all  else,  it  is  to  be  presumed 
she  recognized  them  for  what  they 
were. 

"  You  must  have  worked  very  hard, 
monsieur,  if  you  have  done  all  these  " — 
pointing  at  the  walls — "since  you 
moved  into  this  studio  .  .  .  Let  me 
see,  nine  weeks  ago,  was  it  not  ?  " 


7°          £be  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  surprised  that  she 
should  remember  the  date  ;  but  she 
had  a  wonderful  memory,  she  never 
forgot  anything — until  it  suited  her  to 
do  so. 

"  You  like  work  ?  "  she  queried. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  it,"  he  re- 
plied ;  then  correcting  himself,  "  at 
least,  I  mean,  one  cannot  do  without 
it.  You  said  yourself,  madame,  that 
one  must  work  to  make  one's  life  what 
one  would  have  it  to  be." 

(Did  he  remember,  she  wondered  in 
passing,  how  and  why  she  had  said  it  ? 
or  was  he,  like  all  men,  idealizing 
words  into  the  meaning  he  wished 
them  to  have  ?) 

"And  one's  art  is  what  makes  life 
worth  living." 

"  You  are  young  to  think  that,"  she 
said,  half  to  herself.  "  But  where  is 
the  statue  Carrolin  told  me  of?" 

"  Carrolin  misled  you,  madame; 
there  is  no  statue."  Then  feeling  her 
eyes  upon  him,  he  muttered  confusedly, 
"  Only  a  mere  rough  clay  sketch." 

"It  is  there,  is  it  not?"  she  asked, 
pointing  with  her  parasol  to  the  hud- 
dled cloths  on  the  modelling  board. 
"  Will  you  not  show  it  to  me  ?  " 


tflaw  in  tbc  Garble.          71 

It  was  less  from  an  amiable  com- 
pliance with  her  wishes  than  from  an 
irresistible  desire  to  compare  the  copy 
with  the  original,  that  Lanthony  drew 
the  covering  cloth  from  off  the  figure. 
Madeleine  was  confronted  with  her  own 
portrait.  There  she  sat  in  the  chair  she 
most  frequently  occupied  in  her  own 
boudoir,  and  she  wore  the  dress  which 
she  had  worn  the  night  he  had  supped 
with  her.  She  looked  at  it  silently  for 
a  moment,  smiling  back  at  it ;  then 
she  said, — 

"What  do  you  call  her?  " 

" '  Circe/ "  he  replied  in  the  de- 
tached tone  of  a  man  half  awake,  for 
he  was  already  wholly  absorbed  in 
comparing  the  woman  and  her  like- 
ness. She  stirred  slightly,  and  he 
called  out,  "Stay — stay  just  as  you 
are  for  one  moment,"  and  moved 
round  to  catch  how  the  light  fell  on 
the  roundness  of  her  chin.  She  stood 
motionless,  smiling  at  him  ;  and  look- 
ing up  he  saw  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
him  with  a  curious  look  half  pity,  half 
amusement,  and  something  else  besides 
which  he  could  not  define.  That  look 
recalled  him  to  his  senses,  and  mur- 
muring an  inaudible  apology  he  hastily 


72          Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

threw  the  cloth  over  the  figure  on  the 
stand. 

"  Don't  you  find  it  very  difficult  to 
model  from  memory  ?  "  she  asked,  still 
with  that  look. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  simply ;  "  but  it  is 
the  only  possible  way." 

"  You  look  to  exhibit  this  statue 
some  day  when  it  is  finished  ?" 

"  If  it  is  finished — yes.  But  that 
may  be  never,  for  there  is  no  model 
who  can  supply  the  points  which 
memory  forgets  or  has  never  clearly 
taken  in." 

"There   is   one,    I  think,"  she    said  v 
after    a    moment's    pause.  ...     "  M. 
Lanthony,  shall  I  sit  to  you  for  your 
'  C  irce  '  ?     What  do  you  say  ?  " 

He  said  nothing ;  he  simply  stared 
at  her  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way  like  a 
man  who  has  been  half  stunned  by  a 
blow.  He  rubbed  his  ears  as  if  to 
make  sure  he  had  heard  aright ;  he 
gasped  as  if  for  breath,  and  then  he 
made  a  step  towards  her  saying, 
"Would  you?  would  you?"  in  a  tone 
of  such  childish  entreaty,  with  an  air 
of  such  one-ideaed  wishfulness,  that 
she  laughed  aloud. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  When  shall  I 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          73 

come?  You  had  better  lose  no  time," 
she  added  mischievously.  "  I  am  a 
very  changeable  person  !  " 

"  To-morrow  at  eleven,"  he  said  de- 
cisively. 

"Good,"  she  replied,  holding  out  her 
hand  to  him. 

"You  are  sure  you  will  come?"  he 
asked,  standing  quite  unconsciously 
with  his  back  against  the  door. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  do  not 
break  my  word." 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  as  though 
afraid  to  let  her  go. 

"  My  horses  will  be  catching  cold," 
she  added.  "A  demain,  riest-ce  pas?" 
and  passing  through  the  now  open 
door,  left  him. 

He  did  not  accompany  her  down- 
stairs, he  stood  rooted  to  the  spot 
listening  till  the  last  echo  of  her  foot- 
steps had  died  away ;  then  he  closed 
the  door,  and  sitting  down,  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  It  was  a  strange 
way  of  showing  joy,  yet  that  was  per- 
haps the  happiest  moment  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT  had  induced  her  to  do  it?  It 
certainly  was  not  from  any  idea  of  the 
reclame  generally  so  dear  to  her  pro- 
fession, for  Madeleine  Le  Fagon's  per- 
sonal charms,  like  her  talents,  were  in 
need  of  no  advertisement.  Nor,  prob- 
ably, had  she  been  impelled  by  a  move- 
ment of  mere  caprice ;  for  she  always 
had  some  reason  even  for  her  most 
apparently  irrelevant  actions.  It  may 
have  been  the  worthy  motive  of  wish- 
ing to  help  forward  a  young  artist  in 
his  career.  Or  it  may  have  been  simply 
a  less  laudable  curiosity  as  to  the  man 
and  his  life,  his  character  and  methods 
of  work  ;  for  though  people  for  the 
most  part  interested  her  not  at  all,  and 
genuinely  indifferent  as  she  might  be 
to  all  the  inner  sense  and  deeper  influ- 


flaw  in  tbe  Garble.          75 

ences  of  her  own  art,  she  could  never 
divest  herself  of  a  habit,  half  uncon- 
scious and  wholly  professional,  of 
minutely  observing  every  one  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact. 

These  considerations  did  not  in  any 
way  cloud  Lanthony's  serene  preoccu- 
pation ;  he  asked  no  questions,  he 
troubled  himself  with  no  possible  rea- 
sons :  it  was  enough  for  him  that  she 
was  there,  and  that  with  her  had  come 
his  opportunity.  But  it  was  a  puzzle 
to  the  woman  herself,  and  it  has  since 
afforded  food  for  conjecture  to  not  a 
few  other  people. 

She  came,  true  to  her  word,  and 
punctual  to  a  moment,  on  that  first 
morning,  and  on  many  subsequent 
days.  And  while  Lanthony  studied 
her,  she  studied  him — with  this  differ- 
ence, that  while  his  attention  was 
wholly  absorbed  by  form  and  line  and 
outward  proportions,  hers  was  occupied 
with  the  man  himself,  and  only  took 
note  of  his  visible  characteristics  just 
in  so  far  as  they  served  to  indicate  his 
real  personality.  Carrolin  had  told 
her  he  was  not  as  other  men  were,  and 
each  day  brought  to  her  a  conviction  of 
the  truth  of  this.  She  had  heard  a  great 


76          Cbe  Jflaw  in  tbe 

deal  of  high-sounding  talk  about  art  in 
her  day,  and  she  had  known  many 
artists  of  almost  every  shade  and  de- 
gree ;  from  the  poor,  struggling  be- 
ginner of  scant  training  and  doubtful 
capacity,  to  the  few  successful  great 
men  whose  training  had  developed  into 
a  science,  and  whose  talents  acted  with 
an  assurance  which  almost  amounted 
to  a  mechanical  certainty.  But  she 
had  never  seen  an  artist  like  this,  to 
whom  art  was  the  sole  end  and  aim  of 
life,  and  human  beings  but  just  so  much 
necessary  material  for  the  development 
of  artistic  theory. 

She  had  known  many  men  of  various 
types  and  classes  ;  and  those  who  had 
been  thrown  into  any  conditions  of 
real  intimacy  with  her  had  one  and  all 
fallen  under  the  undefinable  spell  of 
her  personal  influence,  and  worshipped 
her  according  to  their  nature  and  kind. 
But  she  had  never  come  across  a  man 
like  this,  who  through  all  the  varied 
detail  of  daily  intercourse  scarcely 
seemed  conscious  that  she  was  even  a 
woman,  much  less  a  beautiful  woman  ; 
who  regarded  her  simply  as  a  collection 
of  harmonious  lines  which  it  was  alike 
his  business  and  his  pleasure  to  repro- 


fftaw  in  tbe  Garble.          77 

duce.  Never  since  she  had  sat  to  him 
in  the  studio  had  he  sought  her  in  any 
other  way ;  now  that  he  had  the  op- 
portunity of  studying  her  satisfactorily 
and  at  leisure,  he  had  ceased  to  fre- 
quent her  house,  or,  as  he  would  have 
put  it,  to  waste  his  time  in  going  to 
see  her  there,  or  on  the  stage.  The 
silent  indifference  of  this  man  moved 
her  strangely,  and  this,  less  from  a 
feeling  of  pique,  than  because  it  awak- 
ened in  her  a  sort  of  naive  wonder. 
At  last  she  had  discovered  something 
new  to  her ;  something  she  had  hardly 
imagined  (for  in  her  the  imaginative 
sense  was  ever  in  abeyance)  ;  something 
worth  studying  for  its  own  sake  alone. 
With  a  sort  of  vague  instinctive  polite- 
ness he  attended  to  her  wants,  and  had 
some  thought  for  her  personal  comforts 
when  she  first  arrived  in  the  mornings. 
But  once  at  work,  his  concentration 
became  so  impenetrable  that  she  had 
begun  to  suspect  that  even  his  scanty 
courtesies  were  grudgingly  gone 
through  merely  as  necessary  prelimi- 
naries to  the  day's  sitting.  She  was  a 
good  sitter,  but  more  than  once  she 
had  to  remind  Lanthony  that  a  human 
model  cannot  remain  for  more  than  a 


78          tTbe  JF  law  in  tbe  flbarble. 

certain  period  in  pose  without  fatigue. 
On  these  occasions  he  aroused  himself, 
as  it  were,  with  a  start,  as  he  realized 
the  situation.  During  the  sittings  he 
never  spoke  to  her,  and  when  she  spoke 
to  him,  answered  either  not  at  all  or 
with  such  obvious  distraction  as  to  be 
absolutely  disconcerting.  And  during 
her  rests  he  either  worked  on  at  his 
clay  as  though  she  were  not  there, 
or  moved  about  looking  at  his  work 
from  different  points,  in  palpable  ob- 
livion of  her  presence.  In  the  end 
this  indifference,  which  had  at  first 
interested  her,  became  a  source  of 
half-acknowledged  irritation,  and  she 
found  herself  more  than  once  wish- 
ing that  these  sittings  were  at  an 
end. 

"  M.  Lanthony,"  she  said  one  day, 
during  a  few  minutes'  rest  he  had  ac- 
corded her. 

"  Madame?" 

"  How  many  more  sittings  do  you 
think  you  will  require?  I  am  soon 
leaving  Paris,  but  I  should  be  sorry  to 
do  so  before  you  have  carried  your 
work  far  enough  to  be  able  to  set  me 
free." 

He    thought   a   moment,  measuring 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          79 

out  in  his  mind  the  time  necessary  to 
complete  the  clay  study.  Then  he 
answered  quite  simply, — 

"  I  think  in  one  more  sitting, 
madame,  I  shall  so  far  have  progressed 
as  to  be  able  to  dispense  with  the 
courtesy  of  your  presence." 

Not  a  word  of  regret,  not  a  shade  of 
personal  feeling  graced  or  softened 
this  bald  statement  of  fact ;  he  had 
been  asked  a  question,  he  answered  it ; 
the  sittings  were  over,  he  thanked  her, 
but  did  not  seek  to  detain  her;  her 
further  presence  indeed  would  be  a 
drawback  rather  than  a  boon.  As  he 
spoke,  Madeleine  felt  within  her  a  sud- 
den spasm  of  rage  as  she  realized  that 
she,  so  impenetrable  and  immovable, 
was  at  last  confronted  with  an  indiffer- 
ence at  least  equal  to  her  own ;  and  his 
simple  phrase  was  destined  to  alter  the 
whole  future  drift  of  Paul  Lanthony's 
life,  though  he  never  traced  subsequent 
events  back  to  that  apparently  trivial 
source. 

The  sitting  at  an  end,  she  was  put- 
ting on  her  long  cloak,  unaided  by 
Lanthony,  for  he  was  busy  adding  a 
finishing  touch  to  the  drapery  he  had 
been  at  work  upon,  and  by  some  mis- 


so          Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  ^Barbie. 

chance  she  entangled  one  of  the  hooks 
of  her  garment  in  her  hair. 

"  M.  Lanthony,  will  you  help  me  ?  " 
she  said ;  and  he,  turning,  saw  her  with  a 
movement  of  divine  awkwardness  try- 
ing ineffectually  to  free  herself. 

He  moved  hastily  across  the  room 
and  applied  himself  to  the  task;  but 
his  fingers,  so  apt  at  his  trade,  were 
new  to  this  sort  of  work,  and  he  only 
made  confusion  worse  confounded. 

"Ah!  gently;  you  hurt  me!"  she 
exclaimed,  as  he  strove  to  disentangle 
the  twisted  dark  brown  threads,  while 
she  looked  at  him  smiling  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  I — hurt — you,"  he  repeated  in  a 
muffled  voice,  bending  his  head  lower 
till  he  almost  touched  that  little  space 
of  golden  tints  which  lay  below  the 
growth  of  tangled  hair.  Then  sud- 
denly, he  knew  not  how  he  came  to  do 
it,  nor  why,  he  bent  and  kissed  the 
warm  flesh  beneath  his  hands.  A  mist 
floated  before  his  eyes,  half  blinding 
them,  and,  in  a  lightning  flash  of  time, 
he  saw  and  realized  what  he  had  never 
seen  or  known  before.  Then,  his  face 
deadly  pale,  still  crushing  the  folds  of 
her  cloak  in  his  hands,  he  stood  and 


"  '  I-HURT-YOr,'    HE   REPEATED   IN   A   MUFFLED 
.    VOICE."—  Page  So. 


tlbe  fflaw  in  tbe  flfcarble.          81 

faced  her.  No  mist  dimmed  the  clear 
impenetrable  depths  of  those  eyes  of 
hers  as  she  looked  straight  back  at  him, 
a  smile  upon  her  lips. 

They  stood  thus  for  a  second  or  two 
in  silence,  then  gently  disengaging  her 
cloak,  "  Well — the  sitting  is  finished,  is 
it  not  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  and 
bowed  as  she  passed  out,  and  listened 
to  the  sound  of  her  feet  as  she  went 
downstairs  just  as  he  had  done  every 
day  since  that  first  dayT  And  she,  as 
she  walked  away,  said  to  herself  with 
a  little  shrug,  "  He  is  only  a  man  like 
the  rest  of  them." 

Lanthony,  as  he  turned  back  again 
into  the  studio,  felt  that  in  a  few  short 
moments  the  whole  world  had  changed. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  though  through  all 
the  years  of  his  life  until  now  he  had 
been  blind  and  deaf,  and  that  by  some 
sudden  and  inexplicable  magic  his 
eyes  had  been  opened,  and  his  ears  un- 
stopped. It  was  the  old  myth  of 
Pygmalion  and  Galatea  come  true — 
only  reversed. 

He  went  over  to  the  modelling  board, 
and  passing  behind  the  clay  figure  pas- 
sionately kissed  its  neck  just  at  the 


82          abe  jflaw  in  tbe  flbarble. 

place  where  he  had  kissed  hers.  But 
his  lips  met  only  the  cold  clay  where 
before  they  had  caressed  flesh  and 
blood,  and  in  a  recoil,  which  was  purely 
physical,  he  read  an  allegory  of  the 
heart. 

Oh !  years  wasted  in  a  thankless 
labor  over  dull  abstractions  and  boot- 
less phantasies,  while  the  whole  wide 
world — men,  women,  birds,  beasts,  and 
all  living  things — sang  a  song  of  love  ! 
Oh !  nights  and  days  spent  in  worship 
of  inanimate  beauty,  while  breathing, 
sentient  loveliness  lived  and  walked  in 
ineffable  sunshine  beneath  a  boundless 
sky! 

Lanthony  did  not  at  first  consider 
the  probable  consequences  of  his  mo- 
mentary act ;  he  simply  gave  himself 
up  to  his  new  joy  of  living — living, 
loving,  and  remembering — and  the 
future  troubled  him  not  at  all.  It 
was  only  the  next  day,  when  Made- 
leine, for  the  first  time,  failed  to  keep 
her  appointment,  that  he  realized  the 
possibility  that  she  might  never  come 
again  ;  and  with  the  pang  which  then 
shot  through  him  mingled  the  thought 
of  what  result  such  defection  might 
have  upon  his  work.  For  art  is  a 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          83 

jealous  mistress,  and  habitual  devotions 
die  hard. 

He  did  not  dare  to  seek  her,  and 
spent  that  day,  and  the  night  which 
followed,  in  mute,  restless  misery  alter- 
nating with  aimless  exultation.  The 
day  after,  she  came.  She  entered  the 
studio  with  her  accustomed  imperturb- 
able smile,  and  divested  herself  of  her 
cloak  and  head-gear,  handing  them  to- 
Lanthony  just  as  usual,  talking  a  little 
the  while  upon  indifferent  subjects ;  a 
slanting  ray  of  sunshine  catching  the 
ends  of  her  hair  and  powdering  them 
with  gold.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
respond  to  her  conversation ;  all  his 
energies  were  absorbed  in  so  control- 
ling his  feelings  as  to  appear  equally 
unmoved. 

But  when  she  was  posed  and  he 
took  up  his  tools  to  work,  he  found 
that  his  hand  shook,  his  will  could  not 
guide  his  wandering  fingers.  He  spoilt 
the  effect  of  every  touch  he  tried  to 
make,  and  at  last,  letting  the  tool  fall 
from  his  nerveless  grasp,  he  ex- 
claimed,— 

"  It  is  no  use,  madame,  I  cannot 
work  to-day." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  she  said,  not  unkindly, 


in  tbe  /Hbarble. 

•"  for  I  leave  Paris  to-morrow  for 
several  months.  But  I  daresay  you 
will  be  able  to  fill  in  from  memory 
what  you  cannot  accomplish  now." 

She  rose  and  put  on  her  cloak  with- 
out asking  for  his  assistance,  nor  did 
he  proffer  it.  At  the  door  she  turned  : 

"  Du  courage,  Monsieur  Lanthony, 
£t  au  revoir.  One  of  these  days  your 
4  Circe  '  will  win  the  world  for  you  !  " 
and  smiling  she  left  him. 

There  are  victories  from  which  those 
who  conquer  do  not  emerge  unscathed. 
As  Madeleine  Le  Fagon  walked  down 
to  her  carriage,  she  felt,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  a  twinge  of  remorse. 
But,  "  Bah  !  he  is  only  a  man  like  the 
rest  of  them,"  she  repeated  ;  "  he  will 
forget."  Yet,  like  though  they  be, 
one  man  differs  from  every  other  just 
as  the  myriad  leaves  on  a  tree  differ 
•each  from  each  ;  and  this  time  she  had 
chanced  on  that,  for  her,  hitherto  un- 
known type,  a  man  who  does  not  for- 
get. 

Upstairs  Lanthony  sat  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  But  it  was  no 
longer  a  manifestation  of  joy — Paul 
Lanthony  had  begun  to  live. 


PART  II. 


"  What  shadows  we  are  !  and  what  shadows  we 
pursue'!  " 


CHAPTER  I. 

MONTHS  passed  away  and  the  statue 
of  the  "Circe"  was  nearly  completed. 
They  had  been  months  of  absorbing 
and  ceaseless  labor  to  Lanthony,  who 
lived  for  nothing  but  to  bring  his  work 
to  a  successful  conclusion.  True,  for 
the  first  few  days  after  Madeleine's  last 
visit  to  the  studio  he  had  lapsed  into  a 
strange,  dreamy  idleness  which  was  en- 
tirely new  to  him,  and  later  into  an  irri- 
tated and  abortive  restlessness. 

But  once  fairly  started  he  worked 
with  an  energy  which  thenceforward 
never  flagged,  and  with  a  patience  which 
admitted  no  discouragement.  He  re- 
mained in  Paris  all  through  the  heat  of 
the  summer  and  autumn,  and  when  with 
the  return  of  winter  his  comrades  and 
acquaintances  were  once  more  to  be  seen 


88          £be  ff law  in  tbe  /fcarble. 

in  their  accustomed  haunts,  he  still 
worked  on  as  though  he  were  alone  in 
a  city  of  the  dead. 

The  younger  men  who  knew  him  saw 
nothing  unusual  in  this — he  always  had 
been  according  to  them  a  crabbed  re- 
cluse  whose  room  was  any  day  better 
than  his  company  ;  but  Plon  and  Carro- 
lin  who,  like  every  one  else,  were  denied 
admittance  to  his  studio,  continued  to 
believe  in  him,  and  were  content  to  bide 
their  time. 

His  motive  for  this  fury  of  work  was 
as  alien  from  his  previous  theory  of  life 
as  was  his  subject  from  his  hitherto 
conceived  ideals.  Up  to  now  the  sen- 
timent, no  less  than  the  form  of  Greek 
art,  had  been  for  him  the  one  true  gos- 
pel— a  creed  which  had  necessarily  lim- 
ited alike  his  choice  of  subjects  and  his 
method  of  treatment.  Now,  however, 
he  had  chosen  a  subject  which  could  be 
treated  in  no  conventional  spirit,  and 
he  had  given  himself  a  free  hand  in 
the  literalness  of  his  newly-essayed 
realism. 

He  had  been  equally  sincere  in  his 
belief  that  the  accomplishment  of  good 
work  was  in  itself  a  sufficient  reason  for 
the  labor  it  demanded,  and  he  had 


jf law  in  tbe  Garble.          89 

coveted  success  just  in  so  far  as 
it  evidenced  a  progressive  mastery 
over  his  art.  But  now  all  this  was 
changed. 

At  first,  indeed,  the  spirit  of  his  old 
principle  of  doing  good  work  for  its  own 
sake  alone  continued  to  rule  him ;  for 
a  habit  of  conscience,  like  any  other, 
becomes  in  course  of  time  more  than 
half  instinctive.  But  soon  the  new  in- 
fluences which  had  broken  into  his  life 
asserted  themselves,  and  he  found  him- 
self for  the  first  time  engaged  in  a  min- 
iature war  of  mixed  motives.  And 
after  a  certain  struggle  the  later  sove- 
reignty declared  its  ascendency  and 
won  the  day. 

He  worked  now  to  produce  what  was 
beautiful  only  that  it  might  command 
success,  and  he  desired  success  solely 
that  it  might  win  for  him  the  good 
graces  and  approval  of  a  single  indi- 
vidual. It  was  a  slender  hope,  he  told 
himself,  a  mere  outside  chance,  but  it 
was  a  chance  which  meant  life  or  death 
to  him. 

As  he  progressed  with  the  statue, 
through  sundry  ups  and  downs,  and 
varying  degrees  of  hope  and  despair, 
his  sheer  determination  to  succeed  in 


•go          Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

his  work  crystalized  into  a  belief 
that  he  should  do  so ;  while  his  pas- 
sionate desire  for  the  one  object  of 
such  success  mercifully  blinded  his 
eyes  to  the  improbability  of  his  ever 
attaining  it. 

In  addition  to  the  fluctuating  exhil- 
aration and  depression,  inseparable 
from  such  a  state  of  mind,  he  had  been 
confronted  with  certain  unexpected 
technical  difficulties  and  discourage- 
ments. In  this  instance  he,  for  obvious 
reasons,  determined  to  follow  in  the 
footsteps  of  those  masters  of  past  ages 
who  allowed  no  hand  but  their  own  to 
touch  their  marble.  Nowadays  this 
practice  does  not  obtain  ;  but  our  artist 
carried  out  his  intention  from  the  bitter 
beginning,  and  expended  no  little  time 
and  energy  in  the  roughing  and  block- 
ing out  which  sculptors  usually  com- 
mit to  humbler  craftsmen.  All  went 
well,  and  his  statue  day  by  day  ad- 
vanced rapidly  towards  accomplished 
intention  ;but  one  morning,  when  work- 
ing on  the  right  arm,  he  came  upon  a 
flaw.  The  thing  which  was  to  win  the 
world,  and  through  it  the  woman  he 
loved,  must  needs  be  absolutely  flaw- 
Jess.  So,  though  the  defect  was  one 


jflaw  tn  tbe  /Ifcarble.          91 

which  could  have  been  dissimulated  or 
obliterated  by  certain  well-known 
"  tricks  of  the  trade,"  he  would  have 
none  of  it,  and  breaking  up  with  his 
own  hands  the  labor  of  months,  he 
began  all  over  again  upon  a  fresh 
block. 

The  snows  of  winter  melted  away 
into  spring  ;  a  spring  so  coy  and  unde- 
fined that  it  seemed  rather  to  be  a  pause 
'twixt  seasons  than  a  fresh  stage  of  the 
year. 

Madeleine  Le  Fagon  had,  he  knew, 
returned  to  Paris  months  ago,  yet  he 
did  not  seek  to  see  her,  did  not  even 
desire  to  see  her — as  yet.  If  it  had 
been  open  to  him  at  once  to  test  his 
fate,  he  would  have  shrunk  before  the 
ordeal ;  but  as  people  dislike  making 
confession  of  cowardice,  even  to  them- 
selves, he  inwardly  stated  the  case  in 
more  ambiguous  terms.  Until  the 
"  Circe  "  was  absolutely  ready  to  face 
the  world's  inspection  and  criticism,  he 
would  ask  no  question,  the  answer  to 
which  might  turn  faltering  hope  into 
the  blank  certainty  of  despair.  He 
would  give  himself  and  his  work  every 
chance,  and  avail  himself  of  every 
moment  of  preparation. 


92          Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  flbarbte. 

Madeleine  had  made  equally  little 
effort  to  see  him.  She  was  reaping  her 
usual  harvest  of  plaudits  from  the 
crowd,  and  gaining  a  growing  apprecia- 
tion from  the  cultured  few  ;  and  her 
life  seemed  even  more  than  ever  to  be 
a  sort  of  triumphal  progress  through 
her  world.  People  who  saw  her  act 
that  season  said  that  she  even  surpassed 
herself,  though  no  one  could  exactly 
say  why.  She  had  seemed  before  to 
possess  every  conceivable  excellence  in 
her  art ;  yet  now  they  said  there  was  a 
something  added,  an  indefinable 
nuance,  an  imperceptible  over-touch,  a 
quite  inexpressible  quality  which  was 
only  to  be  felt,  not  described.  Per- 
haps she  too  had,  half  unconsciously, 
learned  some  further  lesson  in  that 
school  wherein  the  wisest  of  us  con- 
tinue scholars  until  we  die. 

Fate,  whose  feet  often  tarry  so  pain- 
fully, sometimes  takes  an  erratic  pleas- 
ure in  quickening  its  course.  One 
afternoon  Lanthony,  feeling  fagged, 
and  suffering  moreover  from  one  of 
those  headaches  which  had  of  late 
threatened  to  become  intolerable,  de- 
cided to  give  himself  a  few  hours'  holi- 
day. He  took  one  of  the  busses 


Cbe  Jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.          93 

which,  starting  from  the  little  square 
at  the  corner  of  the  street,  make  their 
heavily-laden  way  two  or  three  times  a 
day  to  a  certain  point  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  He  had 
been  wandering  for  several  hours  in 
the  twisty  foot-paths,  among  the  trees 
and  green  grass  to  which  he  had  been 
for  months  a  stranger,  and  had  just 
turned  into  one  of  the  carriage  roads 
on  his  homeward  way.  He  was  about 
to  cross  the  road,  but  stood  waiting  a 
moment  till  a  carriage  which  was  com- 
ing rapidly  along  should  have  passed 
by.  It  was  a  victoria  drawn  by  a 
high-stepping  perfectly  matched  pair 
of  blacks,  and  in  it  was  seated  a  woman 
who,  despite  the  season,  was  closely 
muffled  in  furs.  She  turned  her  head 
idly  towards  him  as  she  passed,  and 
then  suddenly  ordered  her  coachman 
to  stop.  Lanthony  awkwardly  lifted 
his  hat  as  she  beckoned  to  him. 

"Ah!  M.  Lanthony,"  she  said,  in 
the  low,  clear  tones  which  those  who 
knew  and  loved  them,  for  want  of  a 
better  description,  called  "  sa  voix 
d'or,"  "  what  ages  since  we  met !  And 
the  '  Circe,'  how  does  she  get  on  ?  " 

His  reply  amounted  to  little  better 


94          Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

than  a  confused  mumble,  and  she  went 
on, — 

"  I  am  on  my  way  down  to  St.  Cloud. 
I  have  a  little  villa  close  by  there  in 
which  I  now  spend  nearly  all  the  time 
that  Paris  doesn't  steal  from  me.  It  is 
rather  early  in  the  year  for  it  just  yet, 
and  my  friends  think  me  mad,  I  be- 
lieve, to  bury  myself  in  what  they  are 
pleased  to  call  '  the  country.'  It  isn't 
the  country ;  but  it's  the  next  best 
thing,  and  the  next  best  thing  is  not 
to  be  despised  in  this  world !  I  love 
the  quiet  and  my  garden.  A  propos,  I 
should  like  to  show  you  my  garden. 
If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  will 
you  come  down  there  with  me  now  ? 
I  am  '  off  duty  '  to-night." 

And  a  moment  later  Lanthony  found 
himself  seated  by  her  side,  being  whirled 
along  as  fast  as  horses  could  carry 
them  to  the  garden  at  St.  Cloud.  He 
did  not  seek  to  discover  why  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  all  the  past  and  all 
the  future  were  merged  in  this  one  ador- 
able and  fleeting  moment  of  the  present. 
Being  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose  he 
thought  in  French  ;  yet  a  very  fair 
translation  of  his  thoughts  might  be 
given  by  the  lines — 


Cbe  fftaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.          95 

"  I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side, 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride — 
So  one  day  more  I  am  deified. 
Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ?  " 

Madeleine  showed  Lanthony  the 
beauties  of  her  garden  with  a  graceful 
pride  which  was  infinitely  charming; 
then,  as  he  turned  to  go,  said, — 

"As  you  have  come  so  far  out  of 
the  world,  why  not  stay  and  keep  me 
company  at  dinner?  Always  suppos- 
ing, that  is,  that  you  have  no  better 
engagement  ?  " 

He  was  about  to  frame  some  suit- 
able form  of  excuse  on  the  ground  of 
his  costume,  but  she  seemed  to  re- 
gard the  matter  as  already  settled,  for 
she  called  through  the  open  window 
of  the  dining-room  to  a  servant  who 
was  arranging  some  flowers  on  a  side- 
table,  and  bade  him  conduct  M.  Lan- 
thony to  a  dressing-room  on  the 
ground-floor. 

"  We  shall  dine  in  half  an  hour," 
she  added.  "  I  am  going  up  to  dress  : 
you  will  make  yourself  as  comfortable 
as  may  be,  and  then  I  will  rejoin  you 
here." 

Lanthony  did  as  she  bade  him,  and 
shortly  after  wandered  out  again  into 


96          £be  Jflaw  In  tbe  fl&arble. 

the  garden  to  wait  her  coming.  He 
sat  down  on  a  bench  underneath  a 
wide-spreading  paulownia-tree,  from 
the  lower  branches  of  which  hung  the 
close  white  bunches  of  a  climbing 
banksia  rose.  It  was  a  lovely  evening, 
and  in  the  late  twilight  there  was  all 
about  him  a  sense  of  shadowy  green- 
ness, and  the  mingled  fragrance  of  a 
hundred  familar  flowers. 

A  little  star  shimmered  shyly  in  the 
pearly  grey  overhead,  a  sleepy  twitter 
or  two  told  of  the  presence  of  birds. 
So  Lanthony  dreamed  on  in  his  en- 
chanted garden.  The  law  of  the  world 
is  forgetfulness  and  change,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  account  for  the  principle  of 
unconscious  selection  which  makes  the 
unimportant  setting  of  certain  events 
for  ever  unforgettable,  even  when  the 
event  itself  has  become  blurred  by  the 
mists  of  time.  The  face  of  our  van- 
ished friend  is  in  slow  course  blotted 
from  our  mind's  beholding,  the  voice 
which  once  made  the  music  of  the 
world  is  a  fleeting  echo  which,  even 
as  we  strain  our  ears  to  catch  it, 
slides  into  silence;  but  the  impres- 
sions of  certain  scenes,  half  unheeded 
at  the  time,  those  trees,  those  fields, 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          97 

the  sound  of  that  babbling  brook,  the 
scents  of  that  far-off  garden,  or  that 
whiff  of  the  hay  on  the  passing  breeze, 
are  for  ever  ours ;  and  it  is  often 
through  them  that  we  vaguely  recall 
the  pale  images  of  those  whom  we 
once  thought  we  could  never  forget. 
Lanthony  in  his  space  of  life  forgot 
many  things,  but  to  his  dying  day  that 
garden  at  St.  Cloud  seemed  to  have 
printed  itself  indelibly  upon  the  vision 
of  his  mind. 

He  was  aroused  from  his  dream  by 
a  cold  blunt  nose  thrust  confidingly 
into  his  hand,  and  the  thud  of  a  huge 
grey  paw  upon  his  knee.  It  was 
Lanoe,  Madeleine's  great  Danish  boar- 
hound,  and  he  was  followed  by  his 
mistress. 

Never  had  Lanthony  seen  her  look 
so  lovely  as  to-night.  Was  it  by 
chance,  or  by  intention,  that  she  wore 
the  same  dress  in  which  she  had  sat  to 
him  for  his  "  Circe  "  ?  Her  only  adorn- 
ment was  a  loose  bunch  of  white  tea- 
roses  fastened  into  the  folds  of  her 
dress.  Le  Fagon's  jewels  were  re- 
nowned throughout  Paris,  but  she 
never  wore  them  except  upon  the 
stage.  She  made,  however,  an  excep- 


3flaw  in  tbe  flbarble. 

tion  in  favor  of  rings — she  liked  look- 
ing at  the  beautiful  gems  flashing 
upon  her  fingers,  she  said.  Lanthony 
had  once  expounded  his  theory  on  the 
subject  to  her,  which  was  that"  a 
woman  with  ugly  hands  should  not 
draw  attention  to  them  by  placing 
jewels  upon  them  ;  that  a  woman  with 
tolerable  hands  was  at  liberty  to  do  as 
she  pleased,  but  that  a  woman  who 
had  the  rare  gift  of  beautiful  hands 
committed  a  crime  in  taste  by  allow- 
ing any  adornment  to  interfere  with 
their  outline.  Madeleine's  hands  were 
beautiful,  and  to-night  she  wore  no 
rings. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  dinner 
which  followed  was  a  success.  Every- 
thing about  it  was  perfect  of  its  kind, 
for  Madeleine  was  an  adept  in  keeping 
the  balance  between  luxury  and  re- 
finement. But  the  very  perfection  of 
everything  was  a  source  of  irritation 
to  Lanthony,  and  seemed  to  widen 
the  gulf,  which  lay  but  half  bridged 
over,  between  his  hostess  and  himself. 
To  a  man  of  his  simple  habits,  whose 
life  had  been  more  or  less  of  a  strug- 
gle, these  evidences  of  luxurious  and 
easeful  order,  which  were  but  the 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.          99 

habitual  environment  of  Madeleine's 
existence,  seemed  to  raise  a  barrier 
between  them  which  was  none  the  less 
impenetrable  because  of  its  soft  in- 
tangibility. 

No  such  reflections  troubled  her 
peace  of  mind ;  she  noticed  that  her 
guest  seemed  ill  at  ease,  and  wondered 
vaguely  what  ailed  him.  But  she  cov- 
ered up  his  taciturnity  with  a  flow  of 
low-toned  sparkling  talk  which  in  the 
end  attained  its  purpose  and  caused 
him  to  forget  his  gloomy  comparisons. 
It  was  once  said  of  Le  Fagon  that, 
if  she  chose,  she  could  carry  on  so  bril- 
liant a  conversation  with  a  stone  wall 
as  to  wake  it  into  answering  her.  And 
Lanthony  was  no  stone  wall. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  essential 
differences  between  the  two  were  other 
than  Lanthony  apprehended.  He  had 
the  advantage  of  her  both  in  birth  and 
early  associations,  for  her  origin  was 
of  the  most  obscure,  and  her  educa- 
tion had  been  limited  to  the  monoto- 
nous drudgery'which  preceded  her  debut 
on  the  stage.  Yet  by  a  miracle  of  intu- 
ition this  woman,  born,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  gutter,  had  insensibly  acquired  a 
familiarity  with  the  suitabilities  and 


ioo        ftbe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

graces  of  life,  and  a  degree  of  power  to 
use  them,  which  to  men  comes  only 
through  heredity  or  tradition. 

Dinner  over,  they  passed  through 
the  adjoining  sitting-room  into  a  large 
conservatory  beyond.  It  was  filled 
with  a  strange  fragrance  and  robust 
lavishness  of  exotic  verdure ;  a  foun- 
tain in  the  centre  plashed  softly  into 
its  shallow  oval  basin  of  white  marble, 
and  the  little  pool  of  water  below  was 
starred  with  the  pink  and  blue  blossoms 
of  the  Japanese  lotus,  and  reflected  the 
lights  enclosed  in  iridescent  globes 
half  hidden  in  the  leaves  and  tendrils 
overhead.  A  servant  brought  coffee 
and  cigarettes,  which  he  placed  on  a 
wicker  table  near  his  mistress.  She  in- 
vited Lanthony  to  help  himself,  and 
settled  herself  in  a  low  rocking-chair 
piled  with  huge  loose  cushions  of  yel- 
low silk.  What  a  picture  she  made 
with  her  proud  head  thrown  out  against 
that  silken  background,  and  every- 
where beyond  and  around  her  a  world 
of  great  glistening  leaves  and  delicate 
blossoms ! 

She  sat  in  a  suave  abandonment  of 
repose,  the  tip  of  one  foot  poised  on 
the  ground  to  give  the  swinging  mo- 


3be  ff  law  in  tbe  /fcarblc.         101 

tion,  her  lithe  fingers  idly  toying  with 
the  silky  ears  of  the  great  hound  which 
kept  watch  beside  her.  She  smiled 
back  with  a  sort  of  indulgent  tender- 
ness at  the  faithful  animal's  worship- 
ping gaze,  wholly  unconscious  of 
another  pair  of  eyes  which  watched 
her  with  no  less  faith  and  love,  but 
with  something  else  besides  shining 
from  out  their  depths. 

Finding  the  silence  at  length  a  trifle 
oppressive,  she  said, — 

"  This  is  my  favorite  sitting-room, 
do  you  know.  When  I  cannot  be  out 
of  doors  I  spend  most  of  my  time 
here." 

But  Lanthony  was  too  much  pre- 
occupied to  reply  until  a  direct  ques- 
tion aroused  him. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  Rose  ?  My 
cousin,  you  know,  that  you  met  once 
or  twice  at  my  house  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  No,  madame.  I  lead  a  very  her- 
mit-like existence  nowadays  and  hear 
but  little  news." 

"  Well,  she  has  done  very  well  in 
these  last  examinations  at  the  Conser- 
vatoire. She  won  the  silver  medal 
as  executant  and  received  also  an  hon- 
orable mention  for  composition.  She 


fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

is  as  glad  and  proud  as  can  be — poor 
Rose  !  " 

"  I  am  very  pleased  to  hear  of  her 
success  ;  but  why  then,  poor  Rose  ?  " 

"  Oh !  why  not  ? "  she  answered, 
with  that  little  shrug  which  all  who 
knew  her  knew  so  well ;  but  in  a  grave 
tone  which  few  were  familiar  with : 
"  She  stands  on  the  threshold  with  life 
all  before  her,  she  expects  so  much  of 
it  and  .  .  .  she  does  not  know — poor 
Rose !  " 

He  wondered  what  hidden  remem- 
brance suggested  her  words  and  the 
tone  in  which  they  were  spoken.  But 
he  said, — 

"  Still,  she  is,  as  you  say,  young  and 
successful — neither  of  them  reasons 
for  pity." 

"  She  is  young  now,  yes,  but  that 
is  lost  with  every  day  we  live,  and 
as  for  success — well,  I  think  I  have 
told  you  how  I  rate  success ;  one 
values  it  only  for  what  it  brings  one." 

"Yes,"  he  repeated  in  a  low  voice, 
speaking  as  though  to  himself,  but  fix- 
ing his  eyes  earnestly  on  hers,  "  one 
values  it  only  for  what  it  brings  one." 

Perhaps  she  in  her  turn  was  surprised 
at  his  speech  and  the  manner  of  it,  for 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         103 

she  averted  her  eyes  from  his  ques- 
tioning gaze  and  said  with  a  curious 
smile, — 

"And  against  that  one  has  to  set 
what  it  costs  one." 

"  What  does  it  cost  one  ?  "  he  asked 
in  a  muffled,  eager  voice. 

"  Ah !  M.  Lanthony,"  she  replied 
with  a  little  laugh,  "  some  questions 
need  no  answer,  and  the  answer  to 
yours  every  one  must  find  out  for  him- 
self." Then  abruptly  changing  the 
subject,  she  said :  "  You  are  looking 
fagged  and  ill;  I  expect  you  have 
been  working  too  hard.  Why  don't 
you  take  a  holiday  ?  You  haven't  the 
time  ?  Oh !  but  yes,  for  the  sort  of 
holiday  I  mean,  you  have.  There  is  a 
very  beautiful  world,  do  you  know, 
within  easy  reach  of  Paris,  though  the 
people  whose  world  lies  all  between  the 
boulevards  and  the  Rond  Point  know 
nothing  about  it.  There  are  charming 
bits  of  country  at  only  an  hour's  dis- 
tance, and  the  river — what  do  you 
want  better  than  that  ?  Not  the  river 
where  they  have  canoe  clubs,  and  re- 
gattas and  noisy  fetes,  but  the  real 
river  up  beyond.  I  live  in  the  town, 
and  by  the  town,  but  I  am  at  heart  a 


104        £be  Jflaw  In  tbe  flbatble, 

regular  country-mouse.  When  I  have 
time  to  spare,  nothing  pleases  me  bet- 
ter than  to  go  off  for  a  day's  rest 
among  the  trees  and  fields,  or  on  my 
beloved  river." 

A  quiver  of  jealousy  shot  through 
Lanthony,  as  he  listened  and  won- 
dered who  was  the  favored  mortal  who 
accompanied  her  on  such  occasions — 
which  was  perhaps  what  led  to  his  say- 
ing,— 

"  I  should  think  it  must  be  delight- 
ful with  congenial  companions.  But  I 
have  very  few  friends,  and  the  idea  of 
a  solitary  pilgrimage  to  country  parts 
does  not  smile  to  me." 

"  No  ?  "  she  queried.  "  To  me,  who 
must  perforce  live  so  much  of  my  time 
in  a  crowd,  there  is  great  charm  in 
solitude.  The  place  I  oftenest  go  to," 
she  went  on,  "  is  such  a  solitary  little 
spot,  so  still  and  aloof  that,  once  there, 
one  might  fancy  oneself  the  only  in- 
habitant of  a  wide  green  world.  It  is 
called  Pont-aux-Bles.  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  it?  No?  Then  I  will  tell 
you.  One  goes  from  the  station  here 
early  in  the  morning.  It  takes  some- 
thing over  an  hour  to  get  there ;  then 
one  passes  through  a  wicket  in  the 


Jf  law  in  tbe  dfcarble.         105 

fence  and  across  a  couple  of  fields, 
down  to  a  little  wood  by  the  water's 
edge — there  are  violets  and  primroses 
there  now,  a  little  later  on  bluebells. 
There  is  a  tumble-down  boat-house 
which  belongs  to  a  funny  old  man  with 
one  eye  and  a  gruff  voice,  who  fishes 
all  the  week — though  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  catches  anything — and  on  Sun- 
days lets  out  his  boat  to  any  stray 
eccentric  who,  like  myself,  has  a  mania 
for  fresh  air  and  quiet.  He  and  I  are 
great  friends,  and  he  is  generally  my 
cavalier  on  such  occasions.  He  has 
shown  me  such  quaint  and  charming 
nooks  on  the  back-waters  of  the  upper 
stream.  I  envy  him  more  than  almost 
any  one  I  know,  with  his  old  boat,  and 
his  tumble-down  cottage  on  the  banks 
of  the  river.  The  only  thing  he  has  to 
complain  of  is  having  but  one  eye  in- 
stead of  two  to  look  at  all  the  lovely 
world  about  him." 

Lanthony's  face  had  regained  its 
serenity  while  she  spoke,  and  he  list- 
ened to  her  description  of  Pont-aux- 
B16s  with  much  the  same  entranced 
absorption  as  a  child  bestows  on  a 
beautiful  fairy  tale — and  such,  indeed, 
it  somehow  seemed  to  him  to  be — a 


io6         Cbe  ff  law  in  tbe  Garble, 

witching  romance  of  some  land  too  fair 
for  human  habitation,  told  by  a  sor- 
ceress who  stole  all  men's  hearts, 
whether  they  would  or  no. 

She  smiled  amusedly  at  his  eager  at- 
tention ;  this  man  interested  her  by 
his  naive  power  of  concentration  in 
small  things  as  well  as  in  great. 

"  As  you  seem  but  little  disposed  for 
solitary  exploration,  I  think  I  must 
myself  show  you  this  corner  of  my 
kingdom.  You  could  come  to  St. 
Cloud  by  the  train  which  passes  at 
nine,  and  we  could  go  together  to 
Pont-aux-Bl£s.  We  would  take  our 
dejeuner  and  picnic  in  a  little  nook  I 
know  of,  and  hire  old  Charon's  boat  (I 
always  call  him  Charon)  and  row  about 
until  we  got  tired  of  each  other  and 
everything  else.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

Lanthony  sat  there  wondering 
whether  he  was  awake  or  asleep.  It 
was  no  marvel  that,  while  his  whole 
soul  cried  a  joyful  assent,  his  tongue 
was  silent,  for  it  is  not  every  day  that 
it  is  given  to  men  to  walk  for  a  space 
in  the  fields  of  the  paradise  of  their 
hearts'  desire. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  ?  "  she  re- 
iterated, smiling. 


Cbc  fflaw  in  tbe  rtbarblc.         107 

"  You  said  just  now,  madame,  that 
some  questions  need  no  answer,"  he 
replied. 

She  rose  with  a  little  laugh  and 
said, — 

"  Nothing  remains  then  but  to  fix  a 
day  when  we  are  both  free.  Sunday  is 
the  day  I  generally  choose  for  my  ex- 
cursions in  the  country,  principally 
because  Paris  is  so  detestable  on  that 
day.  But  next  Sunday  I  am  tied,  for 
I  play  in  the  evening  for  Marie  Ley- 
der's  benefit.  I  can't  go  back  on  my 
word,  or  I  would,  for  I  like  the  Sunday 
night  audiences  even  less  than  the 
others.  However,  for  us,  perhaps,  it 
is  all  the  better;  Pont-aux-Bles  will 
still  be  there  a  week  later,  and  so,  with 
luck,  shall  we,  and  the  trees  will  be 
greener  and  the  bluebells  may  be  out 
by  then — who  knows  ?  " 

A  servant  in  answer  to  her  summons 
appeared  with  Lanthony's  overcoat 
and  helped  him  on  with  it.  Madeleine, 
who  was  standing  near,  bent  her  head 
over  a  plant  of  sweet-scented  geranium 
which  was  growing  out  of  a  huge  por- 
celain vase  at  her  side ;  and  as  she 
turned  to  bid  him  good-night,  she 
broke  off  a  sprig  of  the  fragrant 


io8         £be  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

leaves  and  held  it  out  to  him  with  a 
smile. 

Lanthony  elected  to  walk  back  to 
Paris  that  night  in  preference  to  any 
speedier  mode  of  transit.  And  as  he 
made  his  way  homeward  under  the 
starlit  sky,  with  the  green  freshness  of 
the  spring  night  all  about  him,  his 
questionings  and  misgivings  as  to  the 
future  were  once  more  overborne  by 
the  tide  of  joy  which  surged  through 
the  present,  the  blessed,  beloved  pres- 
ent that  was  all  his  own.  In  the  few 
short  hours  which  had  passed  since  he 
had  walked  this  road  before,  a  new 
world  had  been  borri,  and  he  was  the 
king  thereof. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HE  came  that  Sunday  from  Paris  by 
a  train  which  passed  St.  Cloud  about 
nine,  as  she  had  bidden  him,  and  found 
her  waiting  as  the  train  steamed  into 
the  station.  He  sprang  out  of  his 
compartment,  and  her  servant  placed 
in  it  a  large  picnic  basket  and  some 
light  rugs,  and  helped  his  mistress  to 
establish  herself  in  comfort.  Lanthony 
re-entered  the  carriage,  the  whistle 
sounded,  and  they  glided  slowly  into 
the  ppen  country.  Lanthony  sat 
silent.  To  him  it  seemed,  steam- 
whistles  and  rattling  wheels  and  rail- 
way tickets  to  the  contrary,  that  he 
had  started  on  a  journey  to  heaven, 
and  though  he  told  himself  he  should 
never  reach  that  paradise  of  his,  yet 
the  way  thither  was  smooth. 


no        Cbe  fftaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

"  We  are  going  to  be  very  happy 
to-day,"  she  said  to  him  joyously. 
"  We  will  forget  everything  we  don't 
want  to  remember,  and  remember 
everything  we  don't  want  to  forget, 
and  enjoy  this  lovely  day  as  it  de- 
serves to  be  enjoyed."  She  was  look- 
ing out  of  the  window,  not  at  him,  as 
she  spoke,  watching  the  flower-span- 
gled fields,  and  the  young  trees  burst- 
ing into  leaf,  a  smile  upon  her  lips ; 
and  he  sat  and  watched  her. 

The  train  pulled  up  with  a  jerk, 
which  almost  threw  their  heads  to- 
gether, at  a  little  flag-station,  and  ris- 
ing quickly  she  said, — 

"  It  is  here  we  get  out." 

A  solitary  porter  hurrying  from  his 
breakfast  under  the  lee  of  the  signal- 
box  hastened  to  seize  upon  their 
things,  and  at  a  word  from  Madeleine, 
nodded  and  grunted  with  his  mouth 
full,  and  led  the  way  towards  the  white 
wicket  in  the  platform  fence. 

Our  holiday-makers  were  a  comely 
pair,  and  an  old  countryman  looking 
at  them  from  a  carriage  window,  began 
to  sing — 

"  Jeannot  et  Jeannette 
Un  beau  jour  de  printemps  .  .  ." 


fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie,         m 

in  a  high,  cracked,  old  voice,  some 
misty  recollection  of  his  own  long- 
vanished  youth  shining  in  his  faded 
eyes. 

They  followed  a  twisty  little  path 
which  led  them  across  a  couple  of  fields 
to  a  turnstile,  and  thence  through  the 
wood  to  the  water's  edge.  The  night's 
dew  lay  heavy  on  the  grass  under- 
neath the  trees  where  the  pale  spring 
sunshine  had  not  yet  kissed  it  away, 
and  further  off  in  a  bend  of  the  sloping 
ground  was  a  big  patch  of  bluebells 
that  looked  like  a  bit  of  sky  which, 
having  visited  the  earth  by  mistake, 
found  it  so  good  a  place  that  there  it 
stayed.  The  boat  was  in  readiness, 
and  the  rickety  boat-house  and  its  soli- 
tary wry-faced,  one-eyed  guardian  and 
his  two  dogs  were  all  just  "as  she  had 
described  them. 

She  was  evidently  a  favorite  with 
"  Charon,"  for  he  twisted  his  face  into 
a  grotesque  caricature  of  a  smile,  and 
tried  to  look  as  kindly  out  of  his  one 
eye  as  most  men  can  with  two.  As 
the  boat  glided  away  down  stream,  he 
relighted  his  big  pipe  with  the  porce- 
lain bowl  on  which  was  painted  a 
speaking,  though  florid,  likeness  of  the 


fflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

great  Napoleon,  and  said  musingly, 
shaking  his  head  the  while, — 

"  What  a  many  times  I've  seen  her 
here,  and  never  twice  with  the  same  !  '\ 

He  spoke  to  himself,  but  the  porter, 
who  loitered  near,  overheard  him,  and 
said  with  a  snigger, — 

"  She's  always  got  a  sweetheart  in 
tow,  eh,  Pere  Ambroise  ?  " 

"  You're  a  fool,  Joseph,"  retorted  the 
other  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity  ; 
"if  you  must  know  everything,  she 
comes  here  mostly  just  with  her  maid, 
Mamzelle  Zelie,  and  sometimes  with  a 
young  lady  called  Mamzelle  Rose,  and 
as  fresh  as  her  name.  And  as  it  is  I," 
tapping  his  breast,  "  that  row  them 
most  times,  I  suppose  I  know  what  I'm 
talking  about." 

Lanthony  pulled  out  into  mid- 
stream, and  then  let  the  boat  drift, 
merely  keeping  her  head  straight  by 
an  occasional  stroke  of  the  oars.  It 
was,  as  Madeleine  had  said,  a  lovely 
day,  with  that  peculiar  indefinable 
attraction  which  belongs  to  early 
spring  and  is,  as  it  were,  a  forecast  of 
the  fuller  beauty  of  the  later  year. 
The  buoyancy  of  spring  which  forces 
the  bursting  buds  into  leaf,  and  opens 


Jflaw  in  tbc  flfcarble.         113 

the  eyes  of  a  thousand  sleeping  flowers, 
is  inseparably  associated  with  the  aim- 
less gaiety  of  heart  which  is  accounted 
the  crowning  privilege  of  youth.  But, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  often  affects  the 
young  with  an  incongruous  melan- 
choly ;  and  the  fever  and  strain  of 
overwork  in  which  he  had  been  living 
for  months  had  induced  in  Lanthony 
precisely  that  state  of  body  which 
lends  itself  to  profound  depression  of 
mind. 

Yet  nothing  could  have  been  fairer 
in  its  way  than  the  scene  on  which  his 
eyes  rested.  A  faint  bluish  haze  hung 
over  the  fields  and  masses  of  woodland 
against  the  horizon,  the  low-lying  mid- 
dle distances  were  fused  into  a  shimmer 
of  delicate  opalescent  tints,  while 
nearer  at  hand  the  magic  of  the  sun- 
light brought  out  the  smallest  details 
with  microscopic  distinctness.  It  lit 
up,  here  the  brown  sodden  drifts  of 
fallen  leaves,  there  the  dazzling  golden 
green  of  fresh  young  growth  ;  it  trans- 
formed the  dewdrops  hanging  from  the 
tiny  twigs  into  flashing  gems,  and 
turned  the  tall  spikes  of  the  rushes  into 
glinting  spears.  The  banks  just  at 
this  point  were  bordered  with  a  fringe 


H4         *n>e  3flaw  in  tbe 

of  pollard  willows,  their  bare  rods,  as 
yet  rebellious  to  the  touch  of  spring, 
standing  up  from  the  old  grey  trunks 
clear  and  straight  against  the  sky,  slim 
wands  of  yellow,  red,  and  purple,  which 
the  moving  sheet  of  the  fast-flowing 
stream  below  reflected  in  a  rippling 
stain  of  red  and  gold. 

"  What  fools  people  are — who  can 
really  do  as  they  like,  and  have  not  to 
work  for  their  living  like  you  and  me — 
not  to  live  always  in  the  country  !  " 
exclaimed  Madeleine,  looking  around 
her  ;  and  she  was  quite  sincere  in  what 
she  said,  for  while  the  best  things  in 
art  failed  to  touch  her,  she  had  a  gen- 
uine appreciation  of  the  beauties  of 
nature. 

Lanthony  was  surprised  at  her 
emphasis,  for  she  was  not  given  to  en- 
thusiasm ;  but  what  so  delighted  her 
had,  apparently,  ceased  to  affect  him, 
for  he  answered, — 

"  One  likes  to  live  amongst  one's 
kind,  I  suppose." 

"  One's  kind  ?  "  she  repeated,  "  I 
don't  see  it.  But  where  one  has 
to  spend  half  one's  life  observing, 
and  the  rest  amusing  them,  I  think 
'  one's  kind,'  as  you  call  them,  cease 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         115 

to  possess  any  sort  of  attraction  for 
one." 

"  One  may  not  care  about  them  in 
the  mass,"  he  replied — "  and  yet — yet, 
individuals  may  make  up  so  much  of 
one's  life  that  to  be  near  them  becomes 
a  necessity.  Even  if  one  does  not, 
cannot  see  them  very  often,"  he  went 
on  timidly,  "  even  if  one  can  form  no 
real  part  of  their  life,  to  breathe  the 
same  air,  to  walk  the  same  streets,  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  them  in  passing,  is 
what  one  lives  for." 

He  spoke  rather  in  exculpation  of 
himself  to  himself  than  with  any  view  of 
impressing  her. 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  facing 
her,  his  eyes  dreamily  fixed  upon  the 
distant  lines  of  the  landscape,  and  she 
pondered  on  the  complete  change 
which  had  been  wrought  in  him.  It 
was  no  surprise  to  her,  for  at  her  final 
sitting  she  had  seen  for  herself  that 
Lanthony's  awakening  from  his  pro- 
longed indifference  was  likely  to  cost 
him  dear.  The  episode,  though  ex- 
ceptional in  her  experience,  had  left 
her  unmoved ;  but  she  now  felt  a 
curiosity,  which  was  purely  intellec- 
tual, regarding  the  progress  of  this 


jflaw  in  tbe  flbarble, 

man's  transformation,  and  with  he* 
passion  for  analysis  she  determined  to 
satisfy  it. 

They  were  nearing  a  little  shaded 
nook  to  which  she  had  directed  him  as 
the  place  where  they  were  to  land  for 
their  al  fresco  repast.  He  rowed  the 
boat  alongside,  and  made  it  fast  while 
she  busied  herself  in  unpacking  the 
basket. 

After  they  had  breakfasted  they  sat 
on  there  awhile,  the  sunlight  flickering 
through  the  tangle  of  boughs  and  new- 
born leaves  overhead.  She  had  thrown 
aside  her  hat,  and  the  rays  gleaming  on 
the  shining  surface  of  her  hair  cast  a 
glow  over  the  warm  pallor  of  her  face. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  musingly  upon  an 
old  ragged  wych-elm  whose  gnarled 
boughs,  bedecked  with  the  powdery 
green  of  its  close-clinging  blossoms, 
were  touched  into  momentary  youth 
and  beauty.  Suddenly  she  turned  to 
him,  with  a  soft  light  in  her  lovely  eyes, 
the  like  of  which  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, and  said  in  those  slow,  sweet  tones 
he  knew  so  well. 

"  Could  one  not  persuade  the — the 
individual  who,  as  you  say,  makes  up 
so  much  of  one's  life,  to  leave  the  noise 


'WITH    PALE   FACE   AND   GLOWING    EYES    HE   SEEMED   TO 
PLEAD  AN    UNEXPRESSED   CAUSE." — Page  ///. 


Cbe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         117 

and  glare  of  the  town,  and  to  live  with 
one  in  the  country?  " 

All  the  blood  seemed  drawn  back 
from  his  heart  so  as  to  leave  it  still, 
and  then  it  returned  with  a  rush  which 
was  almost  suffocating.  He  did  not 
answer  her  question  directly,  but  bend- 
ing forward  with  pale  face  and  glowing 
eyes  he  seemed  to  plead  an  unexpressed 
cause. 

"Ah!  what  a  life!  Think  of  it- 
day  after  day  growing  into  years,  and 
they  two  alone  together  in  a  world  of 
their  own." 

"  And  art  ?  "  she  queried,  in  the  same 
words  he  had  used  to  her  the  first  night 
they  had  met. 

"  There  would  be  no  room  for  art  in 
such  a  world  as  that — no  room,  no  need 
for  it.  What  need  could  such  as  those 
two  have  of  symbols?  Art,  after  all, 
is  but  aspiration — there  can  be  no  place 
for  art  in  heaven." 

She  apparently  had  but  slender  faith 
in  the  sufficing  delights  of  a  premature 
Paradise,  for  she  rejoined  : 

"  Art  then  would  go  to  the  wall  in 
this  ideal  solitude  ft  deux,  and,  it  seems 
to  me,  individuality  would  be  annihil- 
ated." 


us         abe  Jflaw  in  tbe  flbarble. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  would  be 
strengthened  by  union.  Each  nature 
would  be  so  merged  in  the  other  as  to 
be  but  one — one  heart,  one  brain,  one 
love,  one  life." 

It  occurred  to  her  that  brain  would 
enter  very  little  into  the  matter,  and 
that  no  heart  could  stand  the  strain  of 
such  implacable  concentration,  but  she 
did  not  say  so  in  so  many  words. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  dream,  mon  ami" 
she  said  at  length,  "  but,  like  most 
dreams,  it  would  not  stand  the  test  of 
daylight.  Were  it  possible  for  two  peo- 
ple to  live  exactly  as  you  describe — 
and  some  have  tried  it,  I  believe — it 
would  last  them  just  until  the  man  got 
restless,  and  the  woman  got  bored.  It 
is  their  nature  to,  you  know,  and ' 

"  I  am  not  speaking,"  he  broke  in, 
"  of  a  vain  caprice,  or  a  light  love,  but 
of  something  far  different — which  per- 
haps," he  added  bitterly,  "  you  cannot 
understand." 

"  A  great  and  lasting  passion  ?  I 
was  about  to  say,  when  you  interrupted 
me,  that  those  two  you  speak  of,  were 
they  rash  enough  to  try  your  experi- 
ment, would  in  a  measurable  time  re- 
turn to  the  world  they  had  left,  with  a 


£be  fflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         119 

dream  the  less  and  a  disillusion  the 
more.  The  condition  of  our  life  is 
change,  my  friend,  and  in  your  ideal 
world  you  ignore  the  law  of  limita- 
tions." 

Her  voice  had  taken  on  a  little  ring 
of  hardness,  her  eyes  had  once  more 
veiled  themselves,  and  the  smile  with 
which  she  spoke  was  as  imperturbable 
and  inscrutable  as  ever.  Her  curiosity 
was  satisfied  ;  she  knew  all  there  was 
to  know. 

She  rose  and  reseated  herself  in  the 
boat,  and  Lanthony  rowed  up  stream, 
staring  stupidly  at  the  rushing  water. 
And  as  he  looked  at  the  broad  silver 
streak  of  the  river  hurrying  to  the  far- 
off  and  hidden  sea,  he  drew  a  bitter 
parallel  between  it  and  the  woman  who 
sat  before  him,  the  glow  of  the  western 
sky  lighting  up  the  calm  beauty  of  her 
face.  Both  were  fair  with  an  incom- 
parable loveliness,  both  were  borne 
onwards,  despite  the  obstacles  which 
confronted  them,  by  some  unseen  force 
towards  an  inevitable  goal.  The  river 
flowed  on,  bearing  with  it  stray  straws, 
fallen  leaves,  or  huge  branches  and 
stems  of  trees  cast  on  its  breast  by  the 
winter's  storms;  the  woman,  all-un- 


Iflaw  in  tbe  /fcarble, 

heeding,  carried  with  her  the  light  and 
feeble  caprice  of  the  foolish,  or  the 
living  love  and  hearts'  devotion  of  the 
strong — both  in  the  swift  progress  of 
their  relentless  course  gave  back  but 
broken  reflections  of  the  world  about 
them. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  last  touches  had  been  added  : 
the  "  Circe "  was  finished.  She  had 
told  him  she  would  come  and  see  it 
some  day  before  it  left  the  studio,  and 
one  Wednesday  afternoon  she  came. 
The  rays  of  the  low  sun  struck  full 
through  the  big  side  window,  and  lit 
up  both  the  woman  and  her  likeness 
— the  creation  of  his  hand  and  brain 
and  will,  and  the  living  original  whom 
he  had  no  power  to  fashion  into  other 
than  she  was.  She  stood  and  looked 
at  the  statue  for  some  moments  with- 
out speaking,  the  evening  light  upon 
her  hair,  and  an  inner  light,  as  it  were, 
shining  out  from  her ;  and  as  she 
looked,  she  felt  a  strange  passing  thrill 
of  triumph  at  the  great  thing  this  man 


Jflaw  in  tbe  dbatble. 

had  achieved.     At  last  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  him, — 

"  My  opinion,  as  you  know,  is  worth 
very  little  in  such  matters,  but  my 
instinct  is  better  than  my  judgment, 
and  I  feel  you  have  done  a  great  thing. 
Your  Circe,"  she  added,  with  a  smile,  in 
the  same  words  she  had  used  months 
before,  "  your  Circe  will  win  the  world 
for  you." 

"  The  world,"  he  repeated  bitterly, 
"  the  world  to  me  means  but  one 
thing;  if  that  is  denied  to  me,  what  do 
I  care  for  the  rest  ?  " 

She  gave  a  pitying  little  shrug  and 
smile,  as  she  answered, — 
.  "  Oh !  the  world  has  its  drawbacks, 
no  doubt,  its  flaws,  and  dust-heaps, 
and  ugly  places ,  but  after  all  it  is  the 
only  one  we  know,  and  we  have  got  to 
live  in  it.  We  all  of  us,  I  suppose, 
begin  by  crying  for  the  moon,  the  one 
thing  which  we  have  not  and  cannot 
have,  and  which,  were  it  but  seen  de 
pres,  would  in  no  way  tally  with  the 
picture  drawn  by  our  imagination. 
But  after  we  have  got  over  that,  we 
take  and  enjoy  such  good  as  the 
world  offers — art,  success,  money." 

"  Art,  success,  money  are  nothing," 


Jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         123 

he  answered  in  a  low  voice, "  nothing 
is  anything — save  one  thing." 

"  The  moon  ? "  she  asked  with  a 
slight  mocking  inflection  in  her  tone. 
"  Ah  !  that,  my  friend,  can  never  be 
ours  ;  so  the  sooner  we  content  our- 
selves with  what  we  have,  or  can 
attain,  the  better  for  us — and  every 
one  else." 

He  asked  her  no  further  question ; 
the  time  for  question  and  answer  be- 
tween those  two  was  for  ever  gone  by, 
and  the  hope,  which  had  hardly  been 
more  than  a  willful  illusion,  was  merged 
in  the  dull  despair  which  settled  like  a 
pall  upon  his  soul. 

She  turned  to  go,  and  at  the  door 
paused,  and  said,  smiling,— 

"  All  success,  my  friend !  you  will 
see  that  I  am  a  true  prophetess,  if  but 
a  defective  art-critic — all  success !  " 
she  repeated,  "  and  au  revoir  !  " 

She  little  thought  when  and  how  she 
was  to  see  him  again. 

Late  that  evening  Lanthony  was 
returning,  tired  out,  from  a  long,  aim- 
less walk  through  streets  in  which  fad- 
ing daylight  struggled  with  the  yellow 
blur  of  the  lamps,  and  by  his  own 
doorway  almost  ran  against  a  little 


124        £be  jflaw  fn  tbe  flbarble. 

stout  man  in  a  light  overcoat,  smoking 
a  very  big  cigar. 

This  was  none  other  than  Caillou- 
doux,  the  well-known  dealer  in  works 
of  art  at  the  corner  of  the  Avenue  de 
l'Op£ra.  He  had  been  the  purchaser 
of  the  "  Runner,"  which  he  had  resold 
at  a  very  tidy  profit,  and  had  extorted 
an  undertaking  from  Lanthony  that 
he  should  have  the  first  refusal  of  his 
next  exhibited  work.  He  had  a  cer- 
tain knack  of  discovering  young  artists 
of  promise,  and  he  posed  as  the  friend 
and  patron  of  impecunious  merit,  an 
assumption  which  deceived  no  one, 
but  which  he  still  affected  from  mere 
force  of  habit.  He  was  not  a  very  pro- 
found or  cultured  critic,  but  he  was  an 
undeniable  judge  of  commercial  value, 
and  having  for  many  years  catered  for 
the  public  taste  in  matters  of  art,  he 
had  of  late  established  himself  as,  in 
some  sense,  its  arbiter.  He  scented 
the  coming  man  in  Lanthony,  and  was 
determined  to  keep  his  hold  upon 
him.  He  had  written  several  times 
to  him  to  request  that  he  might  be 
allowed  a  private  view  of  the  proposed 
exhibit,  but  his  letters  had  remained 
unanswered. 


jflaw  in  tbc  rtbarble.         125 

"  Ah !  M.  Lanthony,"  puffed  the 
little  man,  "  I  am  fortunate  at  last  to 
catch  you.  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
you  about  our  statue "  (emphasizing 
the  possessive  pronoun).  "  I  wrote  to 
you  about  it  last  week  and " 

"  Well,  M.  Cailloudoux,"  answered 
Lanthony  shortly,  "  what  is  it  you 
wish  to  ask  about  my  statue  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  forget  that  I  have  the 
first  refusal  of  it  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  remember  perfectly.  What 
then  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  M.  Lanthony,  a 
man  likes  to  know  what  he  is  about, 
and  it  is  not  unusual  in  such  cases  to 
give  a  possible  purchaser  the  advan- 
tage of  a  private  view." 

"  It  is  not  my  way,"  said  Lanthony 
curtly. 

"  Also,"  said  the  other,  advancing  a 
step  nearer,  and  smiling  amiably, 
"  such  a  course  might  be  very  greatly 
to  your  advantage,  for  I  should  be  pre- 
pared, if  your  work  suited  me,  to  pur- 
chase it  immediately,  leaving  you  the 
option  of  subsequent  exhibition,  bien 
entendu" 

"  M.  Cailloudoux,"  replied  the  other, 
"  you  will  not  have  long  to  wait  before 


126        tlbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

your  curiosity  is  satisfied.  By  paying 
a  franc  you  will  be  at  liberty  to  see 
my  statue  at  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie, 
always  supposing  that  it  is  accepted. 
If  it  is  not,  I  conclude  that  you  will 
have  no  further  interest  in  the  matter." 

"  Then  you  are  not  disposed  to  con- 
sider  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  ;  bon  soir,  M. 
Cailloudoux." 

Cailloudoux  followed  after  him  to 
offer  the  services  of  trained  packers, 
etc.,  for  the  transport  of  the  statue. 
But  Lanthony  had,  it  appeared,  already 
made  his  own  arrangements,  and  the 
crest-fallen  dealer  went  his  way,  curs- 
ing all  young  fools  who  did  not  know 
a  good  chance  when  they  got  it. 

Two  days  afterwards  the  "  Circe " 
was  to  be  sent  in.  The  studio  was 
even  dustier  than  usual,  littered  with 
straw  and  bits  of  rope  and  wood  and 
carpentering  tools,  and  workmen  had 
been  busy  all  the  morning  piecing 
together  the  big  crate,  which  was  being 
got  ready  for  the  statue's  reception. 
Finally  these  preparations  were  fin- 
ished, and  she  was  enveloped  in  her 
straw  coverings,  and  placed  in  the 
crate.  The  big  north  window  through 


Sbe  jflaw  in  tbc  /Barbie.         127 

which  she  was  to  be  lowered  had  been 
taken  out  of  its  frame,  and  a  cart  was 
waiting  below  to  receive  her.  A  little 
crowd  of  idlers  stood  gaping  in  the 
court  ;  heads  peered  out  from  windows 
on  other  stories,  and  two  or  three 
small  boys  were  periodically  chased  by 
the  porter's  wife  out  of  one  of  the 
doors  which  led  from  the  yard,  only 
to  reappear  the  next  moment  through 
another.  The  ropes  were  passed 
underneath  the  crate,  and  "  Houp  !  " 
shouted  the  foreman  in  charge,  "  all 
together !  steady  below !  let  her  go ! 
Pouf — there  you  are,  monsieur !  " 

Lanthony  brushed  the  dust  from  his 
coat,  and  taking  his  hat  followed  the 
man  downstairs.  The  cart  with  its 
burden  swayed  and  creaked  out  of  the 
yard,  and  the  little  boys  yelled  with 
delight.  "  Hoik!  Fhar asset  Heuh  ! 
la  grosse  malle !  "  they  screamed, 
dancing  and  capering  about,  dodging 
the  wild  strokes  of  the  porter's  broom- 
stick, and  making  merry  at  his  wife's 
objurgations. 

Lanthony  followed  the  cart  on  foot, 
and  as  they  made  their  slow  way 
through  the  crowded  streets,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  he  were  playing  the 


i28        Cbe  jflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

part   of    chief  mourner     at   his     own 

funeral. 

•»**** 

Carrolin's  exhibits  had  all  been  sent 
in  days  before,  and  as  he  had  no  appre- 
hension touching  their  fate  in  the 
hands  of  the  jury,  he  had  plenty  of 
leisure  to  concern  himself  about  his 
friend.  He  went  to  the  Rue  de  la 
Valliere  and  learned  from  the  porter 
that  the  statue  had  been  sent  off  early 
that  afternoon.  There  was  no  longer 
any  reason  for  Lanthony's  wishing  to 
exclude  him  ;  he  would  look  him  up 
and  they  would  arrange  to  dine  and 
spend  the  evening  together. 

"  Monsieur  had  come  in  about  half 
an  hour  ago,"  the  porter  informed  him  ; 
"  and  mon  Dieu,  he  was  as  pale  as  a 
ghost ! " 

"What  will  you  have?"  put  in  his 
wife,  "  to  work  like  that  day  and  night 
— yes,  monsieur,  I  speak  true  when  I 
say  that  often  of  late  he  has  spent  the 
whole  night  in  the  studio,  and  never 
gone  to  bed  at  all — and  then  never  the 
time  taken  for  a  decent  meal ;  a  mouth- 
ful here,  a  mouthful  there,  enough  for 
a  sparrow.  I  went  up  a  few  minutes 
ago  with  his  coffee,  but  Monsieur  had 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         129 

locked  himself  in,  and  returned  me  no 
reply." 

Good-hearted  Carrolin  felt  uneasy, 
but  he  answered  lightly  as  he  ran  up- 
stairs,— 

"Set  your  mind  at  rest,  Madame 
Robert ;  we  will  soon  put  all  that  to 
rights." 

He  knocked  at  the  studio-door,  and, 
receiving  no  answer,  rang  at  the  en- 
trance of  Lanthony's  apartment  above. 
Then  down  again  to  the  studio,  with 
a  hearty  thump  on  the  closed  panels. 

"  Let  me  in,  Lanthony  ;  it's  Carrolin 
— open  the  door,  I  say." 

No  answer,  no  sound  of  movement 
within.  A  cold  shiver  passed  over  him 
as  he  waited  and  listened  ;  he  had  often 
been  denied  admittance,  but  never 
refused  an  answer  till  now.  He  could 
stand  it  no  longer, — he  leaned  the 
whole  weight  of  his  body  against  the  ill- 
fitting  door,  and  pushing  with  all  his 
force  burst  it  open. 

Lanthony  lay  on  the  floor  amongst 
the  dust  and  debris  of  the  packing,  his 
arms  stretched  out,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
face,  deathly  pale,  turned  towards  the 
place  where  the  "  Circe"  had  been. 

Carrolin  stood  for  a  second  transfixed 


130         Sbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

with  horror,  then  kneeling  down  by  his 
friend  he  felt  for  the  pulse  which  came, 
a  wandering,  flickering  thread  of  life. 
"  God  be  thanked  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
"  only  a  faint."  He  hastily  summoned 
the  porter  and  his  wife,  and  all  three 
made  unavailing  efforts  to  revive  him. 

"  He  can't  stay  here,"  said  Carrolin 
desperately,  and  he  and  the  porter 
carried  him  up  and  laid  him  on  his  bed. 

Then  leaving  the  other  two  in  charge, 
he  dashed  off  to  find  Brun,  a  rising 
young  doctor  and  an  old  comrade  of 
his,  and  a  friend  also  of  Lanthony's. 

When  they  came  back  together  he 
motioned  Brun  to  the  floor  above  and 
turned  into  the  empty  studio  to  wait 
for  his  verdict. 

"  Madame  Robert  is  right,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  he  has  half  killed  himself 
with  overwork."  Then  looking  round 
at  the  sketches  and  the  casts  on  the 
walls,  another  light  dawned  upon  him. 
He  recognized  those  hands  and  arms 
perfectly,  and  the  head  with  the  face 
left  blank  was  no  secret  for  him.  Out 
of  that  blank  space  shone  soft,  long- 
lidded  eyes,  and  a  mouth  which  curved 
itself  in  a  mocking  smile.  "Ah  fool, 
fool  that  I  was  !"  he  murmured,  twist- 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         131 

ing  his  fingers  together  in  a  futile  pas- 
sion of  remorse.  "Why  did  I  not 
leave  him  to  live  out  his  life  his  own 
way !  " 

Brun  came  downstairs  again,  and  in 
answer  to  Carrolin's  look  of  eager  in- 
quiry, said, — 

"  It  is  serious — very  serious." 

"And  the  cause?" 

"  He  can  never  have  been  of  robust 
constitution  ;  the  attack  is  but  a  natu- 
ral consequence  of  the  way  I  hear  he 
has  been  working,  overworking,  of  late. 
The  immediate  cause  may  have  been 
some  shock  to  his  nervous  system. 
You  know  him  well — are  you  aware  of 
any  special  trouble  or  anxiety  that  has 
lately  come  to  him  ?  " 

Carrolin  glanced  involuntarily  at  the 
casts  on  the  walls ;  then  he  answered, 
"  No,"  for  he  felt  at  one  and  the  same 
time  that  he  knew  and  did  not  know. 

"  I  am  going  to  get  Vieusseux  to 
come  round  and  see  him;  I  cannot 
undertake  -the  responsibility  of  such  a 
case  single-handed,  and  I  shall  bring  a 
trained  nurse  back  with  me — that  is 
indispensable." 

Carrolin,  once  more  left  alone,  went 
up  to  his  friend's  room.  Brun  and 


132        ftbe  3flaw  in  tbe  flbarble, 

Madame  Robert  had  undressed  him 
and  put  him  to  bed.  He  lay  still  un- 
conscious, his  eyes  closed,  his  face  as 
white  as  the  coverings  of  his  bed,  some- 
times deathly  still,  sometimes  mutter- 
ing incoherently  to  himself. 

In  about  half  an  hour  Brun  returned, 
accompanied  by  Vieusseux  and  an 
elderly  woman  with  a  kind,  wrinkled 
face  underneath  her  white  coiffe.  She 
was  dressed  in  the  grey  dress  of  an 
order  of  nursing  sisters,  and  the  doctors 
spoke  to  her  as  "  Sceur  Anne."  After 
their  examination  of  the  patient  they 
held  a  low-toned  consultation,  and 
wrote  down  some  directions  for  the 
nurse's  guidance.  Then  Brun  crossed 
the  room  to  where  Carrolin  stood,  and 
said  kindly, — 

"  You  had  better  come  away  now ; 
there  is  nothing  to  be  done  at  present, 
and  he  will  have  every  care  and  atten- 
tion. You  can  come  again  to-morrow 
and  see  how  he  gets  on." 

As  they  left  the  room  together 
Vieusseux  followed  them. 

"  Monsieur,"  began  Carrolin,  turning 
towards  him,  and  then  found  his 
speech  interrupted  by  a  lump  in  his 
throat. 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         133 

"  It  is  impossible  at  present  to  pro- 
nounce a  decided  opinion,  monsieur," 
said  the  other,  reading  his  thought. 
"  I  have  known  recovery  in  similar 

cases — but  it  is  rare." 

***** 

Carrolin  went  the  next  day  and  every 
day  to  inquire  after  his  friend,  but  the 
news  he  heard  did  not  vary.  Lanthony 
alternated  between  delirious  rambling 
talk  and  long  periods  of  coma. 

The  day  when  the  lists  announcing 
the  decisions  of  the  jury  were  to  be 
made  public,  Carrolin  made  his  way  to 
the  door  in  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie 
where  they  are  posted  up.  He 
thought  he  was  beforehand,  but  the 
list  had  been  put  up, -it  appeared,  a 
few  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  and  he 
found  himself  in  a  regular  queue  of  men 
who  had  sent  in  exhibits,  and  were 
pushing  and  elbowing  their  way  to  the 
front  to  see  how  their  names  stood. 
Some  few,  their  fears  set  at  rest,  or 
their  curiosity  satisfied,  were  making  a 
slow  progress  outward  through  the 
crowd.  Amongst  these  was  Castory 
(Plon's  present  pet  pupil),  his  face  radi- 
ant. 

"  Eh  bien  ?  "  asked  Carrolin,  forget- 


134        £be  fflaw  in  tbc  flfcarble, 

ting  that  his  preoccupation  was  not 
every  one's. 

"Bronze,  deuxieme  class e"  was  the 
laconic  reply — meaning  he  had  won 
the  bronze  medal. 

"And  Lanthony?  where  is  he?" 

"  Oh  !  bien  au-dela  de  $a,"  laughed 
the  other  ;  "  go  and  see."  He  shouted 
something  further  which  Carrolin  did 
not  catch  as  he  pressed  forward. 

He  ran  his  eye  over  the  awards  in 
the  second  class,  and  the  lower  half  of 
the  first.  "Giraud,  Michaudel,  Retz, 
Castory,  .  .  .  but  I  don't  see  him,"  he 
exclaimed  aloud,  in  a  disappointed 
tone. 

"Who  are  you  looking  for?"  asked 
a  man  alongside  of  him,  a  Cossac-ite, 
by  name  Bretillon. 

"  Lanthony,  of  course.  Where  the 
deuce " 

"  You're  looking  too  low.  Look 
there,  right  at  the  head  of  the  show," 
pointing  with  his  stick. 

Carrolin  read,  "  Lanthony,  Paul ; 
statue  de  Circe" 

Lanthony  had  won  the  gold  medal ! 

"En  voila  un  qui  a  de  la  chance!" 
said  Bretillon,  good-humoredly  enjoy- 
ing the  other's  amazement. 


Cbe  Jftaw  in  tbe  Garble.         135 

"  Jolie  chance  !  "  muttered  Carrolin, 
as  he  turned  to  go. 

He  flung  himself  into  the  first  cab 
that  passed,  drove  straight  to  the  Rue 
de  la  Valliere,  and  raced  breathlessly 
up  the  stairs.  Soeur  Anne  smiled 
gravely  at  him  as  she  opened  the  door, 
but  he  asked  her  no  questions  this 
time,  and  only  halted  a  moment  in  the 
ante-chamber  to  recover  himself  before 
he  went  on  tip-toe  into  Lanthony's 
room.  The  sick  man  was  lying  on  his 
back,  his  head  propped  up  with  pillows, 
his  eyes  open.  No  gleam  of  recog- 
nition came  into  them  as  he  stared 
fixedly  at  Carrolin,  who,  after  some  in- 
effectual efforts,  found  his  voice,  and 
said  gently, — 

"  Paul,  old  fellow,  your  Circe,  she  is 
accepted.  I  have  just  seen  the  lists." 

Still  no  sign  or  movement. 

"  Paul !  dear  old  Paul,"  he  went  on,  in 
choking  tones, "  you  are  at  the  top  of  the 
list.  She  has  won  the  gold  medal  !  " 

Still  that  fixed  vacant  stare  of  un- 
heeding eyes.  Then  Lanthony,  sud- 
denly throwing  up  his  arms,  burst  into 
a  weak  and  piteous  cry. 

"  Madeleine!  Madeleine  !  "  he  called, 
and  fell  back  unconscious. 


136        £be  fflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

Soeur  Anne  hurried  across  the  room, 
and  as  she  arranged  the  helpless  head 
and  tenderly  drew  the  sheet  over  the 
arms  and  shoulders,  she  said  in  a  whis- 
per to  Carrolin,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears, — 

"  He  is  always  repeating  that  name. 
Ah !  poor  fellow,  he  must  have  been 
through  some  great  sorrow  1  Mother 
of  all  mercy,  have  pity  upon  him  !  " 


PART  III. 


"  Call  no  man  happy  till  he  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  a  clear,  bright  day  at  the  be- 
ginning of  May.  There  was  a  suspicion 
of  dry  keenness  in  the  air,  a  sort  of 
after-thought  of  winter's  chill ;  the  sky 
was  of  a  bright  pale  blue  flecked  here 
and  there  with  little  fleecy  clouds; 
sparrows  twittered  and  gossiped  in  the 
gutters,  and  other  birds  sang  in  the 
trees  and  shrubberies  of  the  Tuileries 
gardens.  Fountains  plashed  and 
leaped  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  leaves 
on  the  trees  of  the  allies  and  boule- 
vards, still  new  to  the  world,  danced 
shyly  in  the  fresh  passing  breeze.  It 
looked  a  very  well-lit,  white,  and  scru- 
pulously clean  world  that  morning, 
everyone  seemed  busy  and  glad  to  be 
busy,  and  the  passers-by  moved  briskly 
along. 


140         £be  tflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

The  stream  of  cabs,  carriages,  and 
vehicles  of  all  kinds  passing  through 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  the  ave- 
nues beyond  was  unusually  active  for 
that  early  hour,  and  it  diverged 
towards  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie,  where 
every  one  seemed  to  be  going  that  day, 
the  opening  day  of  the  Salon.  The 
sun,  catching  the  spokes  of  wheels, 
the  shiny  hats  of  fiacre  drivers,  the 
polished  leather  and  metal  trappings  of 
harness,  and  the  gleaming  panels  of 
carriages,  turned  them  into  flashing 
kaleidoscopic  points  and  bars  of  white 
light ;  there  was  much  stamping  of  im- 
patient horses  flecked  with  foam, 
champing  of  bits,  cracking  of  whips, 
objurgations  and  shouts  mingled  with 
snatches  of  low-toned  laughing  talk ; 
every  degree  of  shabbiness  side  by 
side  with  dainty  evidence  of  luxury ; 
workers  out  for  a  holiday,  and  those 
whose  life  was  one  long  holiday,  going 
through  just  another  stage  in  the  pleas- 
ure-seeking which  is  their  work ;  old 
and  young  and  middle-aged,  busy  men 
and  idle  men,  pretty  women  and  ugly 
women,  and  those  between  the  two — 
those  who  had  a  certain  beaute  d* occa- 
sion and  those  who  never  had  any 


JFlaw  in  tbe  Garble.         141 

beauty  at  all.  A  curious  medley  in 
which  extremes  touched,  and  almost 
all  classes  were  represented. 

Many  of  the  humbler  items  in  this 
crowd  simply  came  to  see  the  greater 
folk  in  all  their  varying  degrees  of  lit- 
tleness, and  remained  outside  while  the 
rest  went  into  the  building  to  stare  at 
works  of  art,  or  at  each  other.  The 
turnstiles  rattled,  the  catalogue-sellers 
did  a  brisk  trade;  and  once  inside,  the 
many  who  had  got  there  by  payment, 
and  the  few  who  had  the  favor  of 
passes,  disported  themselves  after  their 
kind.  Some  "  in  the  know,"  with 
marked  catalogues  and  a  certain  air  of 
importance,  made  straight  for  particu- 
lar rooms  where  the  pictures  of  the 
year  were  to  be  seen ;  others,  deter- 
mined to  have  their  money's  worth, 
even  at  the  cost  of  heroic  fatigue,  pre- 
pared to  take  everything  in  turn ; 
others  had  evidently  come  there  to  see 
human  beings,  not  pictures,  and  roamed 
about  in  search  of  expected  acquaint- 
ances, or  sat  still  and  watched  the  pass- 
ing crowd  with  looks  of  amused 
scrutiny.  Others  again,  who  had  ap- 
parently no  definite  object,  drifted 
slowly  along,  now  and  then  coming  to 


142        £be  fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

a  standstill,  where  (for  one  fool  makes 
many)  a  crowd  had  collected  before 
some  statue  or  picture.  One  of  the 
largest  of  these  little  groups  surrounded 
a  statue  placed  about  the  middle  of 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  inner  ring  of 
exhibits  in  the  central  hall,  which  is,  or 
was  in  those  days,  entirely  devoted  to 
sculpture.  The  strong  white  light 
from  the  great  glass  dome  struck  flat 
and  full  upon  the  marbles  and  bronzes 
and  terra-cottas,  upon  the  friezes  and 
bas-reliefs  and  medallions,  and  its  glare 
was  thrown  back  from  the  yellow  sand 
of  the  alleys,  and  from  the  moving 
mass  of  color  in  the  crowd,  upon  the 
dull  green  of  the  palms,  and  other  foli- 
age plants  disposed  in  lines  and  clumps 
about  the  place.  It  is  a  somewhat  try- 
ing light  either  for  human  beings  or 
for  their  images,  and  there  is  a  brutal 
frankness  about  it  which  is  merciless  to 
defects. 

The  little  crowd  grew  larger  as  more 
loiterers  eddied  around  its  outer  edge  ; 
and  the  various  people  who  jostled 
their  way  to  and  from  the  statue  ex- 
pressed their  sentiments  with  regard  to 
it  in  language  distinctive  of  their  class. 

"  En   voilct   une  farceuse !  "    said   a 


Jflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         143 

provincial,  as  he  stood  open-mouthed 
before  it,  "  grinning  like  a  cat  at  every- 
body !  What  do  they  call  her  anyhow  ? 
C.  i.  r.  c.  e.  Who  is  she,  Adolphe  ?  " 

"  Circe  ?  Blest  if  I  know,"  answered 
his  Parisian  cousin ;  "  but  that,  you 
bet,  is  Mamzelle  Le  Fagon  who  plays 
the  great  ladies,  and  the  others,  at  the 
Splendide." 

"  Pouf !  what  a  treat !  "  exclaimed  a 
shiny-booted,  much  becollared  dandy 
to  his  companion,  as  they  elbowed 
their  way  to  the  front  rank  of  specta- 
tors. "  Catch  me  here  again  !  It's 
like  her,  though,  de  Fresnaye,  her 
smile,  and  all  the  rest  of  it ;  and  sneer- 
ing of  course  as  usual." 

"  Well,  what  would  you  have  ?  It's 
her  little  way.  But  we  shall  see — per- 
haps some  day  the  laugh  will  be 
against  her." 

"Ah!  but  look,  Virginie,  that's  her 
living  image,"  exclaimed  a  very  respect- 
able looking  and  very  fat  shop-keeper 
to  her  daughter.  "  Mon  Dieu  !  what 
an  idea  to  stick  those  women's  portraits 
everywhere ! " 

"  Queer  dress,"  answered  Virginie 
laconically. 

"  She's  a   lucky  one,"  sighed    Mile. 


144        Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

Bibi  in  passing  ;  and  Madame  la  Duch- 
esse  de  Lavoguerie,  halting  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  fringe  of  the  group, 
enveloped  the  statue  in  a  stare  of  com- 
prehensive impertinence  through  her 
double  eyeglass,  much  as  she  would 
have  done  to  the  original,  and  said 
with  a  little  shrug  to  Madame  la 
Vicomtesse  d'Allezy, — 

"  Circe  or  Le  Fagon — pretty  much 
the  same  thing,  ma  ckere  !  " 

A  little  apart  from  the  crowd  in 
front  of  the  statue  stood  a  knot  of 
men — artists  these.  They  had  all  seen 
it  before  on  the  so-called  "  varnishing- 
day," and  on  the  subsequent  days 
before  the  exhibition  was  open  to  the 
public. 

"  He's  going  down-hill,  that  fellow," 
said  old  Xavier  Plon,  shaking  his  head. 

"  On  the  contrary,  mon  maitre,  he 
appears  to  me  to  be  going  up,"  said 
Martelys,  "  and  that  in  a  very  different 
fashion  from  most  of  us.  A  week  ago 
no  one  knew  anything  about  Lanthony, 
and  there  was  little  to  know  except  that 
he  had  promising  talents  ;  and  so  many 
youngsters  have  that ! — and  now " 

"  All  the  same  he  is  going  down-hill," 
repeated  Plon  ;  "  il  rente  sa  mere.1' 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  dfcatble.         145 

"  Oh !  it  is  not  of  the  Greeks,  that," 
said  Benzon,  "  but  all  the  same  it  is 
superb." 

"  As  superb  as  you  please,  but  the 
ideal  is  lost,"  insisted  the  other. 

"  Or  found,"  said  Martelys,  in  a  half 
aside,  with  a  queer  smile. 

"  Ah  !  here  is  Carrolin,"  he  went  on. 
"  Well,  and  how  is  he?"  he  asked  of 
the  new-comer. 

Carrolin  shook  his  head. 

"  Still  the  same.  Vieusseux  and 
Brun  say  they  can't  yet  tell  how  it 
will  end,  but  they  give  little  hope." 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  said  Martelys.  "To 
be  struck  down  like  that  just  at  the 
very  moment  of  his  success !  It  is 
hard.  And  he  does  not  even  know  of 
it?" 

"  No — he  has  been  unconscious  ever 
since  his  first  seizure.  It  is  that  which 
troubles  them  the  most — the  doctors  I 
mean — this  long  continued  stupor. 
There  he  lies  as  though  nothing  would 
ever  rouse  him  and — 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  for  his  voice 
shook.  He  loved  Paul  Lanthony  and 
was  his  best  friend. 

"  Bah  !  "  growled  out  Plon,  "  it  is  a 
judgment  on  him,"  and  walked  away 


146        £be  jflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

abruptly,  blowing  his  nose  in  a  huge 
red  cotton  pocket-handkerchief. 

The  old  master  loved  his  pupil,  too, 
in  his  way. 

"There  is  nothing  one  can  do?" 
asked  Martelys,  laying  his  hand  kindly 
on  Carrolin's  shoulder. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  he  has  every- 
thing he  wants;  he  has  a  good  nurse 
and  two  of  the  best  doctors  in  Paris — 
Brun,  you  know,  is  devoted  to  him, 
and  the  other  will  do  all  he  can.  There 
is  no  lack  of  money  now.  Cailloudoux 
paid  ;£8oo  down  for  her,"  nodding 
towards  the  "  Circe." 

"  Yes,  and  d d  cheap,  too,"  said 

Benzon.  "  Trust  Cailloudoux  for  smell- 
ing out  a  good  thing !  Why,  he'll 
sell  it  before  the  week  is  out  for  .£1000 
or  £1500." 

And  the  group  then  broke  up. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BENZON  was  right  in  his  prediction  : 
before  the  evening  of  the  second  day 
of  its  exhibition  the  statue  was  resold 
by  Cailloudoux  at  a  profit  of  over  50 
per  cent,  to  Baron  Hatz,  the  Viennese 
Jew  banker,  who  was  the  victim  of  an 
infatuation,  as  hopeless  as  it  was  ardent, 
for  the  original.  It  remained,  however, 
where  it  was,  until  the  close  of  the 
Salon,  and  all  Paris  flocked  to  see  the 
"  Circe "  of  Lanthony,  while  the  man 
who  made  her  lay  a-dying. 

You  have  never  seen  the  "  Circe," 
but  I  saw  her  many  times  before  she 
was  lost  to  the  world,  so  I  will  try  to 
describe  her  to  you.  The  figure,  which 
was  life-size,  was  seated  on  a  low  chair 
of  antique  shape.  She  wore  a  Greek 
dress,  or  rather  that  adaptation  of  it 


148         ftbe  3flaw  in  tbe  /Dbarblc. 

which  was  in  those  days  affected  by 
one  or  two  of  the  few  beautiful  women 
in  Paris,  and  afterwards  adopted  by 
quite  a  number  whose  profile  and  fig- 
ure admitted  of  no  such  audacious 
simplicity  of  costume.  The  draping 
could  not  have  offended  the  most  pur- 
itanical prudery,  for  only  the  throat, 
the  little  space  between  it  and  the 
bust,  and  the  arms  were  bare,  though 
the  full,  firm  modelling  of  the  breast 
and  shoulders  was  conveyed  and,  as  it 
were,  felt,  underneath  the  robe  which 
covered  them.  Her  naked  feet  were 
shod  with  sandals — one,  slightly  drawn 
back,  showed  just  the  tip  of  the  toes 
and  the  suggestion  of  a  lifted  heel  be- 
neath the  hem  of  her  garment ;  the 
other,  fully  seen,  was  shot  forward  in 
front  of  her  a  little  to  the  left.  Her 
arms,  as  I  have  said,  were  bare  to  the 
shoulder,  where  the  over-drapery  was 
clasped  by  a  golden  knot  and  fell  in 
long,  sloping  lines  nearly  to  the 
ground.  The  elbow  of  one  arm — the 
right — leaned  on  the  side  of  the  chair, 
and  the  hand,  the  little  finger  slightly 
curved  downwards,  rested  in  its  turn 
against  the  cheek  with  a  sense  of  soft 
support  from  which  all  pressure  was 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         149 

absent.  The  left  arm  lay  across  the 
figure,  the  palm  of  the  hand  turned 
idly  uppermost.  There  was  no  sug- 
gested jewel,  or  other  ornament,  on 
either  neck  or  arms,  nor  in  her  hair. 

The  statue  gave  rise  at  the  time  to 
a  storm  of  criticism,  the  votaries  of 
academic  ideas  being  especially  severe 
in  their  strictures  upon  it.  They  took 
particular  exception  to  the  portrayal 
of  a  Greek  subject  which  discarded  all 
accepted  conventions  in  the  line  of  ac- 
cessories. A  Circe  was  no  Circe,  they 
would  have  you  believe,  who  was  thus 
represented  bereft  of  her  attendant 
panther,  and  beneath  whose  throne 
lurked  no  captive  beasts.  Even  the 
traditional,  and  hitherto  inevitable, 
wine  cup  was  wanting,  and  the  images 
of  possible  melody — the  lyre,  the  lute, 
the  harp — were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

For  the  wine  of  this  Circe  lay  only 
in  the  intoxication  of  her  smile,  the 
witching  harmonies  of  ancient  myth 
slept  in  the  mute  music  of  her  half- 
parted  lips ;  the  sorcery  which  lured 
men  to  their  doom  had  its  only  evi- 
dence in  the  beauty  of  her  heavy-lidded 
eyes,  in  the  proud  poise  of  her  head, 
the  soft  curves  of  her  matchless  arms, 


iso        £be  3f  law  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

the  lithe  reposefulness  of  her  whole 
body,  and  flowed  from  her  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  ineffable  seduction  which  was 
matter  less  of  detail  than  of  an  unseiz- 
able  personality. 

The  same  critics  went  on  to  say  that 
the  artist  had  denied  to  his  creation 
even  the  saving  clause  of  a  suitable 
adornment.  No  jewels  decked  that 
snowy  bosom,  no  golden  snake  twined 
itself  about  the  proud  column  of  her 
throat,  or  the  suave  roundness  of  her 
arms.  Only  a  spray  of  pomegranate 
flowers  lay  across  the  upturned  palm  of 
the  hand  which  rested  upon  her  lap. 
"  And  what  was  the  meaning  of  those 
pomegranate  blossoms  ?  "  they  asked. 
Perhaps  the  artist  knew. 

Then  they  proceeded  to  attack  the 
treatment  of  the  hair.  The  head  was 
a  beautiful  one,  they  allowed,  but  it 
had  not  been  submitted  to  the  coiffeurs 
of  ancient  Greece,  nor  to  their  succes- 
sors in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Towzled 
heads  had  begun  to  infest  the  world 
even  in  those  days,  though  they  had 
not,  as  yet,  attained  the  appalling  pro- 
portions with  which  we  have  since 
become  familiar.  The  Greeks,  our  mas- 
ters in  all  aesthetic  tradition,  whether 


fflaw  in  tbe  fl&arble.         151 

of  form  or  of  costume,  did  not  forestall 
our  contemporaries  in  encouraging 
their  womankind  to  cover  their  fore- 
heads with  a  mass  of  tangled  curls  in 
emulation  of  a  bull-calf ;  their  brows 
were,  as  a  rule,  too  low  to  admit  of 
such  treatment.  But  they  loved  wav- 
ing locks ;  and  the  generally  received 
idea  that  perfectly  straight-growing 
hair  is  inadmissible  in  the  canons  of 
beauty  is  as  old  as  Apelles.  Those 
who  are  of  a  like  mind  cannot  now  cor- 
rect this  impression  by  looking  either 
at  Madeleine  Le  Fagon,  or  at  the 
"  Circe  "  of  Paul  Lanthony  ;  but  they 
can  still  see  Da  Vinci's  "  La  Joconde  " 
in  the  Louvre. 

In  that  picture  the  hair,  parted 
simply  in  the  centre  of  the  brow,  forms 
a  flat,  smooth  line  cm  either  side  of  the 
head  till  where,  half  way  down  the 
temple,  it  begins  to  wave  in  large  curves 
merely  by  stress  of  its  own  weight,  the 
extreme  ends  twisting  themselves  into 
a  delicious  and  almost  infantile  curli- 
ness.  The  character  of  the  hair  was 
precisely  the  same  in  Madeleine  Le 
Fagon,  who  so  strikingly  resembled  the 
picture  that  she  seemed  to  be  its  living 
antitype.  This  coincidence  had  earned 


is2         £be  fflaw  in  tbe  ^barbie. 

for  her  the  sobriquet  of  "  La  Joconde," 
and  the  habitual  arrangement  of  her 
hair  in  front — which  was  in  reality  only 
in  strict  accordance  with  nature — was 
regarded  by  some  as  an  affectation  em- 
ployed to  emphasize  the  resemblance. 

The  adverse  critics  were  in  due 
course  answered  by  others  whose  en- 
thusiasm admitted  no  drawbacks  and 
recognized  no  faults  ;  and  the  singular 
interest  which  the  statue  aroused  in 
artistic  circles,  and  to  a  minor  extent 
amongst  the  general  public,  was  nat- 
urally increased  by  the  war  waged 
over  it.  Those  who  knew  Lanthony's 
previous  work  were  astounded  alike  at 
the  departure  from  his  early  ideals,  and 
the  marvelous  advance  in  technique 
shown  by  his  later  effort ;  and,  what- 
ever fault  might  be  found  with  it,  every 
one,  they  said,  must  allow  that  it  was 
a  "  big  thing." 

And  for  me,  a  mere  ignorant  mem- 
ber of  an  ignorant  public,  artists  are 
the  best  art-critics — always  provided 
they  are  not  pronouncing  judgment 
upon  their  own  work.  It  was  not  merely 
on  account  of  its  technical  excellences, 
nor  because  it  might  be  regarded  as,  in 
some  sense,  a  denial  of  faith,  that  the 


Che  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         153 

"  Circe  "  was  of  such  absorbing  interest 
to  them,  but  rather  because  it  struck 
a  new  note  as  far  removed  from  an- 
tique ideals  as  from  the  sculpture 
which  aims  at  being  purely  modern. 
It  was,  perhaps,  more  allied  to  some 
masterpieces  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance in  that  it  gave  greater  promi- 
nence to  characteristic  individuality 
than  to  type ;  and  yet  such  definition 
still  leaves  it  a  work  apart.  The 
"  Circe  "  stands,  or  rather  stood,  alone, 
a  woman  of  no  given  nation,  or  type, 
or  period :  in  her  the  artist  attempted 
to  embody  in  a  concrete  form  the  infi- 
nite complexities  of  the  "  eternal  fem- 
inine." How  far  he  succeeded  is  an 
open  question ;  but  if  he  failed,  his 
failure  was,  at  least,  a  glorious  one. 
The  sculptor  and  his  model  alike  are 
dead,  and  the  statue  itself  is  lost  to  the 
world  ;  posterity  can  judge  of  it  but  by 
hearsay,  and  it  is  denied  the  lasting 
seal  of  fame  impressed  on  those  things 
of  beauty  which  the  generations,  as 
they  pass,  proclaim  to  be  a  joy  for- 
ever. 


CHAPTER  III. 

DONNEZ-MOl  a  boire  ! "  Soeur  Anne 
rose  from  her  seat  by  the  stove,  and 
held  a  glass  to  his  lips.  After  which 
she  turned  and  arranged  his  pillows, 
and  then  she  sat  down  as  before,  and 
resumed  her  knitting.  She  was  always 
knitting,  that  woman,  when  she  was 
not  praying — often,  indeed,  she  com- 
bined the  two,  but  he  knew  nothing  of 
that — and  Lanthony  found  himself 
wondering  who  wore  all  the  huge- 
footed  pairs  of  socks  she  must  have 
accomplished  in  her  many  years  of 
sick-nursing.  They  were  all  of  the 
same  pattern,  those  socks — a  short, 
thin  leg  and  a  long,  very  wide  foot. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been 
lying  there  for  years,  and  as  if  Soeur 
Anne  had  been  there  all  the  time.  The 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         155 

last  few  days  Carrolin  had  been  to  see 
him — dear  old  Carrolin  ! — and  had 
looked  so  sad,  and  talked  in  such  a 
funny  little  voice,  that  it  had  made  him 
laugh,  and  Soeur  Anne  had  turned  him 
out  of  the  room.  And  Brun  had  been 
to  see  him,  and  he  too  had  a  face  as  long 
as  a  horse,  and  spoke  as  small  as  though 
he  were  saying  the  responses  in  church. 
It  was  all  very  funny ;  what  were  they 
sad  about,  and  why  did  they  squeak 
like  clowns?  He  had  seen  no  one 
except  those  two  and  Soeur  Anne  since 
— since  when  ?  Once,  a  long  time  ago, 
he  had  been  a  sculptor,  but  that  was 
before — before  what  ?  Here  he  was, 
lying  in  bed  in  broad  daylight ;  and 
looking  at  his  arm  and  wrist  on  the 
coverlet  he  said  to  himself  that  he  did 
not  think  he  could  do  much  chiselling, 
still  less  blocking-out  now,  even  if  he 
wanted  to — but  he  didn't.  It  was 
very  nice  to  lie  here,  and  listen  to  the 
clock  ticking,  and  watch  the  firelight 
dancing  on  the  walls,  and  have  Sceur 
Anne  to  do  everything  one  wanted; 
she  was  very  kind  and  patient,  was 
Soeur  Anne,  she  seemed  to  know  be- 
forehand just  what  one  wished  for, 
and  she  never  minded  a  bit  how  cross 


156         Gbe  3FIaw  in  tbe  flbarble. 

one  was ;  and  then  to  sleep,  sleep, 
sleep  ! 

Paul  Lanthony  was  dying,  they  said, 
but  he  did  not  know  it.  For  some 
days  after  he  was  first  struck  down, 
Sceur  Anne  would  tell  you,  his  mind 
had  wandered,  and  he  had  raved  of 
many  things — of  the  Circe,  of  some  one 
he  called  Madeleine,  of  the  river  he 
had  boated  on,  and  the  fields  he  had 
played  in  as  a  boy.  But  now  the 
struggle  for  life  was  over,  and  death 
awaited  him  in  an  armed  truce.  He 
did  not  suffer  at  all,  for  there  is  a  stage 
of  weakness  which  conquers  capacity 
for  pain.  He  did  not  know  of  his  suc- 
cess, and  he  did  not  remember  his  sor- 
row, as  he  lay  passively  sliding  out  of 
the  world  on  a  swift-flowing  stream 
which  was  bearing  him  to  the  land 
where  all  things  are  forgotten. 

He  listened  to  the  clock,  and  he 
watched  Sceur  Anne.  She  was  a  tall 
woman  ;  her  breadth  was  not  easy  to 
determine,  for  her  robes,  of  a  coarse 
grey  serge — the  costume  of  the  order 
of  nursing  sisters  to  which  she  belonged 
— hung  so  loosely  about  her.  She  had 
a  broad,  plain-featured  face,  so  deeply 
lined  and  wrinkled,  that  it  might  have 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         157 

been  almost  any  age ;  but  perhaps 
much  of  the  sorrow  she  had  seen  in 
the  world  had  entered  into  it  vica- 
riously. Perhaps,  too,  she  had  had  sor- 
rows of  her  own.  But  all  the  tears  she 
had  shed,  on'her  own  or  others'  behalf, 
had  not  quenched  the  light  of  kindness 
which  shone  in  her  faded  eyes. 

Two  things  Lanthony  found  hard  to 
forgive  her.  She  had  a  deep,  gruff 
voice,  a  voice  that  never  could  convey 
all  the  tenderness  she  felt  for  sick  and 
suffering  things ;  and  she  had  large,  thick 
hands  with  thick,  short,  flat  fingers. 
They  could  never  have  been  anything 
but  hopelessly  ugly  hands,  and  now 
they  were  seamed  and  scarred  with  the 
toil  of  those  who  are  vowed  to  poverty. 
Yet  they  had  smoothed  many  a  fevered 
pillow  with  a  strange  instinctive  deft- 
ness that  had  triumphed  over  their 
natural  disabilities,  and  their  clasp  had 
many  a  time  been  as  an  assurance  of 
hope  to  the  dying.  But  her  voice  and 
her  hands,  and,  when  she  first  came,  the 
clink,  clink  of  the  rosary  which  she 
then  wore  at  her  side,  had  been  a  con- 
stant source  of  irritation  to  Lanthony. 
The  two  first  were  irremediable,  and 
he  had  got  more  or  less  used  to  them, 


158         Gbe  jflaw  in  tbe  /Dbarble. 

as  one  does  to  anything  one  sees  or 
hears,  at  all  hours  day  after  day ;  but 
the  clink  of  the  rosary  was  a  curable 
evil,  and  with  that  curious  instinct  she 
had  in  some  things,  Soeur  Anne  had 
found  out  it  annoyed  him,  though  he 
had  never  said  a  word  about  it,  and 
now  wore  her  rosary  no  more.  It  lay 
on  the  low  table  beside  his  bed,  along- 
side of  a  row  of  medicine  bottles  and  a 
little  bowl  full  of  violets.  Perhaps  she 
had  left  it  there  of  set  purpose,  in  the 
hope  that  it  might  speak  to  the  dying 
man  of  things  which  she,  by  the  eti- 
quette of  her  profession  as  nurse,  was 
forbidden  to  make  any  allusion  to.  It 
was  made  of  cherry-wood ;  the  beads 
which  composed  it  were  dulled  and 
worn  with  much  rolling  between  its 
owner's  thick,  flat  fingers,  and  a  small 
crucifix  was  attached  to  one  end  of  it. 
Lanthony's  vague  glance  wandered 
over  the  Figure  on  the  Cross,  but  his 
only  thought  about  Sceur  Anne's  cru- 
cifix was  how  badly  it  was  modelled. 
It  was  odd,  he  said  to  himself,  that 
people  should  find  such  a  thing  as  that 
an  aid  to  prayer — prayer  which  must 
be  difficult  enough  without  any  such 
distraction.  His  artistic  sense  con- 


fflaw  in  tbe  flfcarble.         159 

cerned  itself  with  the  outward  aspect, 
but  his  ears  were  deaf  to  the  cry  which 
for  her  had  echoed  through  the  ages — 
"  Is  it  nothing  to  you  all  ye  that  pass 
by?" 

His  eyes  roved  off  to  Sceur  Anne. 
How  curious  it  was  to  think  that  that 
silent,  shapeless  figure  with  its  big 
hands  for  ever  knitting,  knitting,  was  a 
woman  like — like  her.  Fancy  making 
a  statue  of  Sceur  Anne !  The  idea 
tickled  him  so  much  that  he  began  to 
laugh  weakly  to  himself,  and  his  laugh 
ended,  as  always  now,  in  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing. Sceur  Anne  rose  and  came  to 
his  side  immediately,  and  gave  him 
some  mixture,  smiling  at  him  the 
while,  a  wide,  many-gapped  smile  of  in- 
finite tenderness.  Then  she  smoothed 
his  pillows  once  more  and  turned  him 
in  his  bed,  and  then  she  made  up  the 
fire  and  sat  down  again  to  knit.  Lan- 
thony  found  himself  calculating  how 
many  big-footed  stockings  Sceur  Anne 
must  have  knitted  since  she  first  came 
here  years  ago,  but  before  he  had  fixed 
on  the  exact  number  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CARROLIN  called,  that  afternoon  as 
usual,  but  finding  Lanthony  asleep 
wandered  out  and  drifted  towards  the 
Palais  de  1'Industrie.  He  used  to 
spend  much  of  his  time  those  days  in 
loitering  about  within  ear-shot  of  the 
people  who  gathered  round  the 
"  Circe,"  and  picking  up  fragments  of 
their  talk  wherewith  to  amuse  or  de- 
light Lanthony  when  he  should  be 
well  again  and  alive  to  the  fact,  which 
every  one  else  knew  already,  that  he 
was  a  great  man.  For  Carrolin  had 
an  enthusiastic  belief  in  the  work,  and 
a  rare  love  for  the  maker  of  it,  and 
he  refused  to  allow  what  all  the  time 
he  knew  to  be  true,  that  in  a  few 
days,  more  or  less,  earthly  success 
would  matter  not  at  all  to  his  friend. 


Cbe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         161 

And  he  cheated  his  sorrow  in  this 
manner  on  the  afternoon  we  are  speak- 
ing of. 

The  crowd  was  at  its  thickest.  It 
was  now  about  half-past  five,  and 
there  was  even  a  larger  knot  of  people 
than  usual  grouped  about  the  "  Circe," 
round  which  a  rope  had  been  placed 
to  protect  it  from  a  too  eager  scrutiny. 

Carrolin  had  been  there  some  five 
minutes  or  so  when  the  original  of  the 
statue  came  slowly  along  the  side 
alley.  She  was  unattended,  and  she 
was  not  looking  at  any  of  the  works 
of  art  she  passed  by ;  she  cared  noth- 
ing for  such  things,  and  only  came 
there  to  see  the  crowd,  whose  varied 
inanity,  she  said,  amused  her. 

Arrived  opposite  the  "  Circe,"  she 
glanced  at  it  for  a  moment  with  a 
little  cynical  smile ;  for,  as  Martelys 
had  once  said  of  her,  "  elle  se  moquait 
un  peu  cTellememe  comme  de  tout  le 
monde"  then  turning,  she  caught  sight 
of  Carrolin  and  made  straight  for  him. 
She  appeared  absolutely  unconscious 
of  the  little  murmur  of  admiration  and 
excitement  which  had  greeted  her 
appearance,  and  began  thus, — 

"  He   is   not   wanting   in   ambition, 


162         Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

your  friend,  but  apparently  he  does 
not  appreciate  success,  for  though  one 
hears  of  nothing  but  his  great  work 
these  dull  days,  one  never  sees  him. 
Some  one  said  he  was  ill,  but " 

"  You  were  rightly  informed,  mad- 
ame,"  interrupted  Carrolin  stiffly. 
"Paul  Lanthony  is  very  ill — dying, 
the  doctors  say." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then 
she  said  slowly  in  a  voice  which 
hardly  seemed  to  belong  to  her, — 

"  When — how  did  it  all  happen?*' 

Carrolin  affected  a  calmness  he  did 
not  feel,  and  answered, — 

"  Oh !  he  never  can  have  been  very 
strong,  from  what  the  doctors  say,  and 
he  was  always  taking  a  lot  out  of 
himself.  This  is  only,  if  one  is  to 
believe  them,  the  natural  result  of  a 
long  strain  of  overwork — and  trouble 
of  mind,"  he  added,  watching  her 
narrowly. 

She  was  drawing  patterns  in  the 
sand  with  the  point  of  her  shoe,  and 
seemed  absolutely  absorbed  in  them. 

"About  three  weeks  ago  he  was 
struck  down,  and " 

"  Before  he  knew  of  his  success  ?  " 

Carrolin  bowed  assent. 


ttbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         163 

"Who  is  attending  him?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"  Brun  and  Vieusseux." 

"  Good.     And  his  nurse?" 

"Sceur  Anne,  as  good  a  nurse  as 
can  be.  He  has  everything  he  wants," 
he  added.  "  Besides,  they  say  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done ;  it  is  merely  a 
question  of  days." 

She  began  walking  rapidly  and  me- 
chanically to  the  door,  and  all  of  a 
sudden  she  stopped  short  and  said, — 

"  Has  Chaptel  seen  him?  " 

Carrolin  shook  his  head,  and,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  reiterated, — 

"  It  is  but  a  question  of  days — 
hours,  perhaps." 

He  spoke  almost  impatiently,  for 
with  his  own  words  the  iron  entered 
into  his  soul  ;  and  this  woman,  he 
reflected,  what  did  it,  or  anything  else, 
for  that  matter,  signify  to  her?  He 
wavered  in  his  judgment  a  moment 
later,  as  she  turned  to  him  with  a  flush 
upon  her  pale  face,  and  a  curious  light 
in  her  eyes,  and  said  with  an  animation 
most  unusual  to  her, — 

"  But  he  must  not  die,  I  tell  you  !  " 
Then  observing  that  he  was  watching 
her  with  astonishment,  she  recovered 


164         Gbe  3FU*w  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

her  habitual  composure,  and  added 
quietly,  "An  artist  like  that !  " 

Still  he  looked  at  her  surprised,  but 
his  surprise  was  of  a  different  quality. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking," 
she  went  on  ;  "  that  is  a  new  language 
for  me  to  speak,  is  it  not  ?  I  am  no 
artist  myself,  L£on,  and,  as  you  know, 
I  don't  much  believe  in  the  existence 
of  artists.  But  if  there  be  such  a 
thing,  your  friend  is  one." 

They  were  walking  through  the  ves- 
tibule, and  had  already  reached  one  of 
the  exits. 

"  I  agree  with  you,  madame,"  an- 
swered Carrolin  gravely,  "  but,  unfor- 
tunately, he  is  also  a  man,  and  art  will 
not  save  his  life." 

She  halted  a  moment  to  give  a 
direction  to  the  servant  who  held  the 
door  of  her  coupe,  and  was  whirled 
rapidly  away.  Ten  minutes  later  her 
carriage  dashed  up  to  the  door  of  a 
house  in  the  Rue  Scribe,  where  lived 
Chaptel,  the  most  famous  of  the  Paris 
physicians  of  that  day.  The  horses 
had  hardly  been  pulled  up  when  she 
alighted,  before  her  servant  had  time 
to  get  down,  and  ran  up  the  broad 
staircase  leading  to  the  first  floor, 


Jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         165 

where  she  caromed  against  a  tall 
man  dressed  in  a  long  fur  coat — Chap- 
tel  himself,  in  the  act  of  fitting  his 
latch-key  into  the  door  of  his  apart- 
ment. 

"  Heavens!  what  is  the  matter?"  he 
asked,  eyeing  her  anxiously,  for  her 
face  was  deathly  pale. 

"Nothing;  I  ran  upstairs  too  fast, 
that's  all.  Tell  me — you  are  just 
going  out?  " 

"  On  the  contrary  ;  I  am  just  coming 
in.  What  can  I " 

"  Good !  You  are  coming  with  me. 
My  carriage  is  downstairs." 

«  But " 

"There  is  no  but,  Chaptel — when  I 
tell  you  it's  a  case  of  life  and  death." 

She  was  already  half  way  down  the 
stairs,  and  Chaptel  followed  her  as  he 
was  bidden.  Not  so  long  ago  he 
would  have  followed  her  to  the  end  of 
the  world,  and  if  time  had  in  some 
measure  modified  his  infatuation,  she 
still  possessed  no  small  influence  over 
him.  Once  seated  in  the  carriage, 
dashing  along  the  streets,  he  knew  not 
whither,  she  said  to  him, — 

"  You  have  heard  of  Paul  Lan- 
thony?" 


166         abe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

"  The  man  who  did  the  '  Circe  '  ? 
Oh !  yes,  we  all  have  the  last  few  days, 
but  I  haven't  had  time  to  go  to  see  it." 

"  It  is  him  you  are  going  to  see," 
she  said  quietly.  "  He  is — dying,  they 
say." 

"Is  any  one  attending  him?"  asked 
Chaptel  quickly. 

"  Oh!  Brun,  Vieusseux  and " 

"  But,  ma  chere,  you  ask  impossibili- 
ties of  me.  I  cannot  go  and  see  their 
patient  without  consulting  with  them 
beforehand." 

"  Oh !  let  us  stand  on  our  dignity 
even  at  the  brink  of  the  grave !  "  she 
burst  out  bitterly. 

"  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,"  said  he 
drily  ;  "  life  is  made  up  of  conventions 
and  we  cannot  help  ourselves ;"  and  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  towards  the 
check-string. 

"  Oh  !  Raymond,  you  will  not  fail  me 
in  this  the  only  thing  I  ever  asked  you 
to  do,"  she  pleaded,  laying  her  hand 
caressingly  upon  his  arm. 

"  It  matters  as  much  as  that  ? "  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice,  looking  down  at 
her  pale  face. 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  answered 
in  quite  her  ordinary  voice,  repeating 


fflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         167 

the  words  she  had  used  to  Carrolin  half 
an  hour  back, — 

"  Such  an  artist !  and  there  are  so 
few !  " 

"  It  can  be  arranged,"  said  he,  also 
in  quite  a  different  tone;  and  putting 
his  head  out  of  the  window  he  gave 
the  coachman  an  address.  "  Vieus- 
seux  is  a  friend  of  mine,  I  will  see 
him  in  passing;  we  are  almost  at  his 
door." 

He  left  her  in  the  carriage,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  returned  with  a  small  bun- 
dle of  papers  in  his  hand — Vieusseux's 
notes  of  the  case.  "  It  is  all  right,"  he 
said  ;  "  Vieusseux  answers  for  Brun  ;  " 
and  then  he  became  absorbed  in  the 
notes. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him,  Ray- 
mond ?  "  asked  a  low  voice  by  his  side. 

Chaptel  roused  himself  with  a  start, 
and  rolling  the  papers  together,  said, — 

"  Oh,  nothing — everything.  He 
never  had  a  strong  constitution,  from 
what  Vieusseux  says,  and  he  has  ruined 
it  by  over-work.  This  attack  is  due  to 
some  severe  shock  to  his  nerves  and, 
through  them,  to  his  heart.  The  news 
of  his  success,  possibly — I  have  known 
cases  like  that." 


168         abe  jftaw  in  tbe  /Garble. 

"  He  does  not  know  of  it/'  she  mur- 
mured. 

"  No  ?  Well,  then,  some  other  strong 
emotion.  Chagrin  cT amour,  peut-etre  ; 
qui  sait  ?" 

Soeur  Anne  opened  the  door  to  them. 
She  seemed  somewhat  surprised,  but 
she  knew  Chaptel  by  sight,  and  he 
went  on  to  tell  her  that  he  had  ar- 
ranged with  Dr.  Vieusseux  to  see  the 
patient,  and  that  Madeleine  would  wait 
till  he  had  done  so.  They  passed 
through  the  ante-chamber  to  the  little 
sitting-room  beyond,  out  of  which 
opened  Lanthony's  bedroom.  There 
Chaptel  halted  a  moment  to  look  at 
Sceur  Anne's  written  report  and  at 
Brun's  latest  prescriptions.  Brun  had 
just  been  there,  she  said;  he  did  not 
think  the  patient  would  last  the  night 
— he  was  asleep,  had  been  asleep  for 
several  hours,  and  the  doctor  thought 
he  would  not  wake  again. 

While  they  were  talking  together, 
Madeleine,  who  could  hear  all  they 
said,  was  taking  in  every  detail  of  the 
things  about  the  room — the  sketches, 
gifts  of  brother-artists,  the  casts  in  min- 
iature of  various  well-known  Greek  an- 
tiques, the  books  in  a  corner  cupboard, 


fftaw  in  tbe  flbarble.         169 

and  a  photograph  or  two  of  the  Elgin 
marbles.  There  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen  reproduction  or  reminder  of  his 
own  work,  and  she  remembered  his  tell- 
ing her  that,  once  completed,  he  ceased 
to  care  for  it. 

At  length  her  eyes  lit  upon  a  terra- 
cotta vase  standing  on  a  bracket,  and 
in  the  vase  was  a  branch  of  faded  pome- 
granate flowers.  At  the  sight  of  that 
mute  allegory  she  winced. 

Chaptel  nodded  to  Soeur  Anne  and,, 
pushing  aside  the  portiere,  went  into 
the  adjoining  room.  The  two  women 
followed.  Madeleine  only  glanced  once 
towards  the  bed.  Was  it  possible  that 
that  still,  huddled  form  with  the  white 
face  and  closed  eyes  was — ? 

Chaptel's  examination  lasted  but  a 
very  few  minutes,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
hours  before  he  came  across  the  room 
towards  her.  He  stood  drumming 
with  his  fingers  on  the  table  and  look- 
ing down  at  them  without  speaking. 

"Well?"  asked  Madeleine  at  length. 

"  It's  a  pity,"  he  said,  more  to  him- 
self than  to  her. 

"What?" 

"  Brun  is  right,"  he  replied  ;  "  he  will 
not  pass  the  night." 


fflaw  in  tbc  dbarble. 

"  Are  you  sure?" 

"As  certain  as  one  can  be  of  any- 
thing in  this  world.  It  is  very  un- 
likely he  will  wake  again,  and  he  will 
be  dead  before  morning." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  she  said, — 

"  And  if  he  wakes,  what  would  have 
to  be  done?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Chaptel,  "ex- 
cept to  give  him  something  to  drink, 
and  if  he  is  restless  some  of  these  drops ; 
but  he  will  not  wake." 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said,  with  a  motion 
of  her  head  towards  the  figure  in  the 
bed. 

"  He  cannot  hear — he  will  not  wake," 
reiterated  Chaptel. 

She  reflected  a  moment  and  then 
said, — 

"  Man  bon  Chaptel,  I  shall  stay  here 
to-night.  You  say  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done  but  what  the  veriest  child 
could  do,"  she  went  on,  answering  his 
unspoken  objection  ;  "  but  if  I  cannot 
be  trusted  to  do  that,  I  can  call  Sceur 
Anne.  She  is  worn  out,  and  can  rest 
in  the  next  room  while  I  keep  watch." 

Chapel  was  silent  for  a  second  or 
two,  and  then  said, — 


jflaw  in  tbc  flbarble.         171 

"  It  would  be  well  for  her  to  have 
some  rest,  poor  soul.  But  it  will  be  a 
long  and  dreary  watch  for  you,"  he 
added,  as  if  to  test  her  readiness  for 
her  self-imposed  task. 

"  I  can  do  with  very  little  sleep,  and 
I  do  not  play  again  till  next  week," 
was  the  reply. 

"  Also,"  he  went  on,  "  if  by  some 
unlikely  chance  he  were  to  wake,  it 
might  startle  him  to  see  an  unaccus- 
tomed figure  in  the  room — not,  indeed, 
that  anything  can  make  much  differ- 
ence to  him  now." 

"  I  can  slip  on  Soeur  Anne's  robe 
when  she  goes  to  lie  down ;  we  are 
much  of  a  height." 

"  You  cannot  change  faces  with 
Soeur  Anne,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  he 
looked  at  her.  "  But,"  he  put  in  as  an 
after-thought,  "  if  he  becomes  conscious 
at  all  again,  he  will  not  be  able  to  take 
in  anything  beyond  a  superficial  im- 
pression of  the  things  about  him." 

Consummate  physician  though  he 
was,  Chaptel  reckoned  without  that 
artistic  instinct  which  outlives  the 
strongest  emotions  of  our  nature  and 
defies  to  the  last  the  blindness  of  death. 

So  it  was  settled :  matters  were  ex- 


172        abe  fflaw  in  tbe  fl&arble. 

plained  to  Soeur  Anne,  and  Chaptel 
took  his  leave,  saying  he  would  call 
again  early  in  the  morning. 

Then  Soeur  Anne,  having  arranged  all 
things  for  the  night  in  the  sick-room, 
came  to  help  Madeleine  to  dress  in  the 
garb  necessary  to  her  hours  of  watch- 
ing. The  ample  folds  of  coarse,  grey 
serge  having  been  somehow  adapted  to 
Madeleine's  slender  form,  she  smiled  a 
little  as  Sceur  Anne  arranged  the  coiffe 
upon  her  head,  tightly  drawing  the 
white  band  across  her  brow  and  over 
her  hair;  and  Sceur  Anne  smiled  back 
at  her  a  wide  smile  of  kindly  encour- 
agement. Hers  was  a  charity  which 
thinketh  no  evil.  When  the  toilette 
was  completed,  Sceur  Anne,  still  smil- 
ing, held  up  a  small  glass  that  Made- 
leine might  look  at  herself.  But 
Madeleine  did  not  need  it,  her  mirror 
was  the  other  woman's  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  madame,"  said  Sceur  Anne, 
shaking  her  grey  old  head,  "  you  are 
too  beautiful  for  a  Sister  of  Charity." 

And  then  Madeleine,  whether  pleased 
by  so  graceful  a  compliment  from  so 
unexpected  a  source,  or  because,  for 
the  moment,  she  really  felt  what  she 
said,  bent  her  head  with  an  infinite 


Gbe  ff  law  in  tbc  /ftarblc.          17? 

grace  over  the  old  woman's  rough 
hand  and  kissed  it,  and — "  Nothing  is 
too  beautiful  for  so  beautiful  a  thing,. 
ma  sceur"  said  she. 

Soeur  Anne  before  lying  down  that 
night  prayed  for  blessings  on  the  beau- 
tiful lady  as  well  as  on  her  patient. 
And  with  the  invariable  catalogue  of 
her  self-imputed  sins  and  short-comings 
mingled  the  recollection  of  that  gra- 
cious kiss  and  heavenly  smile. 

Moreover,  la  Soeur  Anne  for  ever 
afterwards  spoke  of  Madeleine  as  "  an 
angel,"  and  she  was  the  only  person  I 
ever  knew  who  applied  that  epithet  to 
Madeleine  Le  Fagon — for  long  to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER  V. 

DEMANDEZ  Le  Soir —  article  de 
Victor  de  Clavieres  sur  la  '  Circe '  !  ! 
"  Demandez  Les  Echos  des  Boulevards 
— Notes  du  Salon  avec  photog- 
raphies !  ! "  shouted  the  newspaper  ven- 
dors in  the  street. 

It  was  now  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Sceur 
Anne  was  fast  asleep  in  the  next  room, 
and  Madeleine  sat  by  the  fire  listening 
to  the  cries  in  the  street,  and  the  roar  of 
the  distant  traffic  broken  by  the  occa- 
sional rattle  of  a  passing  vehicle,  and 
thinking  of  the  man  lying  in  the  bed 
yonder — the  man  she  had  made  and 
marred.  Not  that  her  reflections  took 
such  crude  shape  as  this.  They  were 
manifold  upon  the  result  which  had 
transpired  ;  but,  habitually  analytical 
though  she  was,  she  avoided  dwelling 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         *;!» 

on  its  probable  cause.  How  hard,  sh'e 
mused,  for  a  man  who  cared  for  success 
to  be  doomed  to  death  just  as  life 
smiled  fully  on  him,  and  to  die  without 
even  knowing  the  fame  he  had  achieved, 
without  knowing  (here  her  thoughts 
took  a  more  personal  turn)  something 
she  herself  could  tell  him.  Yes,  she 
could  tell  him  now, — why  not  ?  since 
he  was  to  die  to-night,  and  dead  men 
tell  no  tales.  It  could  do  him  no  harm 
to  know  it  now,  and  it  might  even  make 
up  to  him  a  little  for — for — 

She  was  getting  dangerously  near  to 
an  admission  which  she  was  determined 
to  deny,  even  to  herself,  and  she  turned 
with  an  effort  to  think  of  other  things. 
What  a  pity  that  such  an  artist  should 
be  lost  to  the  world,  for,  as  she  had  al- 
ready said  to  Carrolin  that  afternoon, 
if  ever  there  was  an  artist  it  was  he. 
What  a  long  time  it  had  taken  him  to 
find  out  that  there  was  anything  else 
in  the  world  except  art,  she  reflected, 
with  a  slow,  retrospective  smile — any- 
thing to  be  loved  and  admired  except 
abstract  beauty,  anything  to  be  desired 
and  yearned  for  save  success  in  repre- 
senting it !  She  could  not  understand 
it,  she  cared  for  none  of  these  things, 


f 76        Cbe  Jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

she  was  no  artist.  She  could  not  un- 
derstand— other  things  either,  the 
things  that  had  eventually  come  to 
him  ;  and  a  pang  shot  through  the  in- 
difference in  which  she  had  steeled 
herself,  at  the  recollection  that  it  was 
this  very  man  who  had  said  to  her, 
"Art  is  nothing,  money  is  nothing, 
fame  is  nothing, — nothing  is  anything 
save  one  thing."  She  thought  of  the 
tone  of  his  voice  as  he  had  spoken,  and 
•recalled  the  expression  of  his  face  ;  she 
looked  at  him  where  he  now  lay,  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Yet  all  the 
while  she  smiled. 

Then  she  drifted  off  into  a  sort  of 
vague  self-pity  that  to  her  alone  such 
capacity  of  belief  and  emotion  was 
denied.  Why  was  she  made  differ- 
ent from  all  other  women  in  that 
she  could  never  trust  without  ques- 
tion, or  love  without  reserve?  Those 
were  the  happy  ones,  those  other  com- 
mon-place, ordinary  beings,  who  passed 
their  lives  in  roving  from  one  hot,  brief 
fire  of  caprice  to  another,  or  contented 
themselves  with  a  hum-drum /#/-« u-feu 
affection  the  very  thought  of  which 
made  her  yawn  !  But  straw  fires  soon 
burn  themselves  out ;  and  one  is  too 


ttbe  flaw  in  tbe  /barbie.         177 

like  another  to  have  much  charm  in  its 
flare ;  and  a  slow  coal  furnace  is  but  a 
poor  heat  and  light  for  those  who  long 
for  an  impossible  sun.  She  could  not 
emulate  them,  ces  autres,  and,  after  all, 
she  did  not  envy  them. 

Of  all  the  many  men  she  had  met 
but  one  had  ever  had  power  to  move 
her,  and  he  lay  dying.  Yet  had  he 
lived,  it  could  have  made  no  difference, 
— some,  perhaps,  at  first  to  him,  and 
then  he  would  have  forgotten  ;  he  was 
but  a  man  after  all,  though  different 
from  his  fellows  in  so  many  ways,  and 
she  could  not  do  as  other  women  did 
and  believe  him  a  god.  It  was  better 
for  him  she  could  not,  she  told  herself, 
better  for  them  both.  She  would  not 
sell  her  freedom  for  the  bondage  of 
love,  however  sweet.  True,  she  had 
always  said  that  if  she  ever  found  a 
man  who  loved  her  as  she  would  be 
loved,  she  would  love  him,  and  that 
the  man  she  loved  she  would  marry. 
Well,  she  had  in  Paul  Lanthony  found 
such  a  man.  Others — how  many  ! — 
had  said  much  the  same  thing  to  her 
before,  but  she  had  not  believed  them. 
She  believed  him  ;  he  loved  her  and — 
she  loved  him.  Oh !  yes,  she  loved 


i?8         Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

him,  she  repeated  almost  fiercely  to 
herself,  as  though  the  repetition  could 
make  it  true.  She  loved  him,  but  not 
enough — or  too  much.  Some  dreams, 
as  she  had  once  told  him,  are  too  fair 
and  frail  to  bear  the  light  of  day. 
Could  he  live,  she  felt,  she  knew,  she 
would  never  marry  him.  She  could 
not  bear  to  confront  her  dream  with 
reality,  she  could  not  bear  to  find  out 
through  the  daily  sum  of  inevitable 
common-places  the  limitations  of  the 
man  she  loved  ;  still  less  (and  here  a 
touch  of  feminine  nature  showed  itself 
with  sharply-defined  precision)  that  he 
should  discover  hers.  Happy  they,  she 
said  to  herself  with  a  sad  little  smile, 
for  whom  the  dream  remains  a  dream, 
an  adorable  and  adored  thing  of  the 
imagination  to  be  for  ever  worshipped. 
But  the  man  she  loved  was  dying, 
and  if  he  awoke  from  his  last  earthly 
sleep  she  would  tell  him  of  what  had 
been,  of  what  was,  and  he  should  carry 
his  dream  with  him  out  into  the  dark- 
ness and  solitude  which  awaited  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHILE  Madeleine  sat  musing  over 
the  fire  the  sick  man  in  the  bed  was 
thinking  out  his  thoughts  too.  He 
had  wakened  some  time  ago,  but  she 
did  not  know  it,  for  he  neither  stirred 
nor  spoke.  He  knew  he  was  dying 
now,  for  a  while  ago  a  tall  man,  whom 
he  did  not  know,  had  stood  by  his 
bed  and  told  him  so — told  Soeur  Anne 
so,  for  they  had  thought  he  was  asleep. 
And  Soeur  Anne  had  bowed  her  head 
and  crossed  herself.  Poor,  kind  Sceur 
Anne  !  The  man  was  a  doctor,  he 
supposed,  for  she  had  called  him 
"  Monsieur  le  docteur,"  and  he  had 
said  that  he,  Lanthony,  was  to  die  to- 
night, and  of  course  he  knew.  And 
then  he  must  have  gone  to  sleep  again, 
for  he  dreamed  that  .Madeleine  was  in 


i8o         tCbe  JFlaw  in  tbc  dfcarble. 

the  room,  he  had  heard  the  rustle  of 
her  dress,  he  had  smelt  the  sweet  indef- 
inite scent  as  of  dried  violets  that 
there  always  was  about  her,  and  he 
had  seen  her  face ;  and  it  was  all  a 
dream  of  course,  for  what  should  bring 
her  here?  But  it  was  so  good  a  dream 
that  he  set  himself  not  to  wake ;  he 
wanted  to  sleep  for  ever  with  that 
sweet  vision  for  his  company.  And 
now  he  was  awake  again  in  spite  of 
himself,  wide  awake,  for  he  could  hear 
the  clock  ticking,  and  the  distant  hum 
of  the  city  whose  streets  he  should 
never  walk  again,  and  there  was  Soeur 
Anne  in  her  grey  dress  sitting  by  the 
fire  with  her  back  towards  him,  and  the 
little  ring  of  light  on  the  table  round 
the  shaded  vielleuse,  everything  just  as 
it  had  been  every  night  since — since 
when? 

It  did  not  much  matter,  though,  be- 
ing awake,  for  when  he  shut  his  eyes 
his  dream  was  with  him  still,  and  he 
saw  again  that  unforgettable  face,  with 
its  grave  eyes  and  its  inscrutable  smile. 
Then  with  a  little  pang  of  more  per- 
fect consciousness  he  remembered 
dimly  how  and  when  he  had  known  the 
vision  of  his  dream  before :  many 


Jflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         181 

scenes  and  places  drifted  through  his 
mind,  a  crowded  theatre  with  people 
stamping  and  cheering,  the  corner 
of  a  sitting-room  where  pomegranates 
bloom-ed,  the  garden  at  St.  Cloud,  the 
way  the  top-light  in  the  studio  used  to 
strike  upon  her  head,  the  day  upon  the 
river.  But  the  pain  he  felt  was  but  of 
short  duration,  and  the  scenes  that 
slid  before  his  mind's  eye  were  seen  as 
through  a  misty  veil ;  all  that  was 
years  ago,  and  he  was  to  die  to-night. 
Did  she  know  he  was  dying,  he  won- 
dered ?  And  would  she  care  if  he 
did  ?  No,  she  would  only  smile.  But 
the  remembrance  of  that  smile  which 
had  once  stabbed  his  heart  like  a  knife- 
thrust  now  glanced  off  harmless  from 
the  invulnerable  armor  of  his  weak- 
ness. 

He  turned  his  head  on  the  pillow 
very  cautiously,  for  he  did  not  want  to 
arouse  Soeur  Anne.  She  was  an  angel 
of  kind  attention,  and  would  certainly 
come  to  him  directly  if  she  knew  he 
moved,  and  he  wanted  just  to  look 
about  a  little  and  think,  if  he  could, 
and  then  dream  again  until  he  died. 

Looking  through  the  unshuttered 
windows  (he  habitually  slept  with  his 


i82         {Ebe  fflaw  in  tbe  rtbarble. 

shutters  unclosed,  and  since  his  illness 
had  insisted  on  their  being  open,  that 
he  might  look  out  when  he  woke)  he 
could  see  a  streak  of  pale  light  the  re- 
flection of  which  was  caught  up  into 
the  dark  spaces  of  the  sky  above,  and 
struck  down  again  to  the  grey  unde- 
fined house-roofs  and  fagades  below. 
The  chimney-pots  and  weather-cocks  in 
this  faint,  uncertain  light  looked  like 
queer  phantom  waifs  washed  in  by 
some  weird  magic  in  darkish  grey 
against  the  grey  background  of  sky. 

As  Lanthony  watched  the  widening 
bar  of  wan  light,  his  thoughts  strayed 
to  a  far-off  adoration  of  his  boyhood, 
the  "  Dawn  "  of  Michael  Angelo — that 
most  sublime  incarnation  of  the  saddest 
impression  in  the  world.  The  yearning 
for  the  vanished  dream  of  night,  the 
dim  presage  of  inevitable  sorrow,  the 
loth  wakening  of  reposeful  limbs,  the 
prescience  of  a  burden  to  be  borne — all 
this  is  written  large  on  sky  and  earth  in 
the  infinite  and  unutterable  pathos  of 
dawning  day.  And  he  undersood  it  all, 
that  dead  hewer  of  stones,  thought  the 
lesser  artist  who  lay  watching  the  last 
dawn  he  was  ever  to  see  on  earth  flush- 
ing into  daybreak.  "  When  the  night 


fflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         183 

is  past  and  the  shadows  flee  away  " — 
who  had  said  that  ?  Some  one  else 
who  knew  all  about  it ;  but  what  did 
it  all  matter?  there  were  to  be  no 
more  days  for  him. 

He  was  thirsty,  though,  oh !  so 
thirsty.  "  Donnez-moi  a  boire  !  " 

Soeur  Anne  rose  from  her  seat  by 
the  fire,  and  coming  to  his  side  held  a 
glass  to  his  lips,  supporting  his  head 
with  her  other  hand.  As  he  drank  he 
looked  mechanically  at  the  fingers 
which  held  the  glass.  What  were 
those  lithe,  round,  taper,  white  bands 
which  twined  themselves  about  it? 
Soeur  Anne  had  changed  her  hands! 

"  En  veux-tu  'encore  ?  "  asked  a  soft, 
low  voice  that  rang  back  in  his  ears  as 
an  echo  of  the  world  he  had  left  be- 
hind him. 

Soeur  Anne  had  changed  her  voice  ! 

Then,  looking  up,  he  saw  a  face 
unfurrowed  by  the  hand  of  time, 
eyes  from  which  shone  the  very  sun  of 
tenderness  and  a  smile  —  ah!  that 
smile ! 

Soeur  Anne  had  changed  her  face. 

He  put  his  hands  beyond  her  wrists 
to  where  he  could  feel  the  shape  and 
fashion  of  her  arms,  and  then  sank 


184         Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

back  upon  his  pillow  to  die — his  dream 
had  come  true. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  some 
time,  then,  "  Paul,"  said  a  voice,  and 
he  lifted  his  eyes  to  meet  that  all- 
embracing  smile.  One  cool,  white 
hand  rested  on  his  brow,  the  other 
was  fast  in  both  of  his.  He  did  not 
ask  her  why  or  how  she  came  to  be 
there — there  was  no  time  for  that ; 
there  was  so  little  time  left  now — only 
he  held  her  hand  and  he  would  hold  it 
always — for  ever — just  like  that.  The 
stillness  of  dawn  was  over  the  city,  and 
every  one  was  asleep,  even  Sceur 
Anne,  every  one  but  their  two  selves 
— her  hand  in  his.  Was  it  earth,  was 
it  Heaven,  or  was  it  some  lovely  Para- 
dise between  the  two  ?  he  did  not 
know — he  only  knew  his  dream  was 
true. 

"  Paul,"  said  the  voice,  "  the  Circe — " 

"What  Circe?" 

"  Yours — the  statue  you  made.  Oh  ! 
Paul,  don't  you  remember?  " 

"  The  Circe — oh  !  yes — you  came  to 
the  studio  two,  four,  eight — how  many 
times?" 

"Well,  your  Circe  is  famous.  It 
was  accepted,  and  all  Paris  is  flocking 


Cbc  flaw  in  tbe  Garble.         185 

to  see  it,  and  they  say  it  is  great — 
very  great  indeed — the  greatest  thing 
of  modern  times,  de  Clavieres  called 
it." 

"  Ah !  I  knew  she  had  got  in  "  (re- 
ferring to  Carrolin's,  at  the  time,  un- 
heeded announcement) — some  one  told 
me — I  forget  who — and  then,  I  think, 
I  got  ill — and  I  have  been  ill  for 
years ;  and  the  doctor  said  I  should  die 
to-night — and — it  is  almost  morning 
now,"  he  added  with  a  strange  little 
smile. 

Down  the  cheeks  of  the  woman  who 
"  had  never  shed  a  tear  in  her  life  " 
coursed  very  real  and  human  tears  as 
she  listened. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  Madeleine  ?  "  he 
asked  ;  but  no  answer  came. 

After  a  pause,  he  said, — 
'    "  Madeleine,     do  you    remember — 
that — day  on  the  river?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes — I  remember,  I  remem- 
ber  "' 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  know — don't 
laugh  at  me — the  beginning  of  that  day 
— only  the  beginning — I  thought  you 
loved  me ! " 

An  irresistible  wave  of  tenderness 
swept  over  her. 


i86        Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

"  Oh !  my  beloved,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  did  love  you — I  do  love  you,  I 
came  here  to  tell  you —  I  love  you,  I 
love  you,  I  love  you,"  and  bending 
her  lips  towards  his  she  kissed  him. 

There  was  a  silence  as  of  death,  and 
then  he  came  back  to  life,  as  it  were 
with  a  start.  Then  he  said, — 

"  I  am  very  tired,  Madeleine,  and — 
I  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep — but  you 
won't  go  away  ever  again — and  when  I 
wake  up  we — we  will  go  out  together 
— always  together,  on  the  river,  and 
— why  don't  you  speak,  Madeleine?" 

"  Ah  !  mon  pauvre  ami  !  " 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  meet  the  red 
glory  of  the  spring  sunrise.  They  had 
said  he  was  to  die  ;  they  had  lied.  He 
was  going  to  live — he  would — must 
live.  Oh  !  priceless  boon  of  life  de- 
spised ! 

He  withdrew  his  hand  gently  from 
her  clasp,  and  putting  his  two  hands 
together,  just  as  he  had  done  when  he 
was  a  little  boy,  he  prayed,  prayed  for 
life,  as  in  that  far-off  time  he  had 
prayed  for  a  fine  day  or  a  coveted  toy, 
and  later  on,  though  this  but  rarely, 
for  success  in  his  art. 

"  Dear  God,  be  kind  and  let  me  live," 


'•  HKNDING   HER   LIPS  TOWARDS   HIS  SHE   KISSED 

HIM."— Page  i8b. 


Jflaw  in  tbc  /Barbie.         187 

he    murmured.     "  Blessed    Mother   of 
Christ,  plead  for  me." 

Then,  clasping  her  hand  once  more 

in  both  of  his,  smiling  he  slept. 
#•  *  *  •*  •* 

He  was  sleeping  still  when  Chaptel 
came  in  the  morning  about  seven  and, 
turning  to  Soeur  Anne,  who  was  up 
and  about  again,  said  after  a  brief 
examination, — 

"  He  is  saved." 

"  Mother  of  God,  blessed  be  Thy 
Name,  now  and  for  ever!  "  said  Soeur 
Anne,  crossing  herself  devoutly,  while 
her  kind  old  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Chaptel  went  into  the  next  room 
where  Madeleine  was  pacing  nervously 
up  and  down. 

"  Well !  it's  nothing  short  of  a  mira- 
cle !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  *'  he  is  alive,  and 
he  will  live.  It  is  beyond  comprehen- 
sion." 

Madeleine  listened  in  silence,  smil- 
ing the  while  that  strange  smile  of  hers. 
Yet,  through  the  smile,  there  was  a 
certain  vague  suggestion  of  disquie- 
tude. 

"Did  he  wake  during  the  night?" 
asked  Chaptel. 

"  Yes,  and  I  gave  him  what  you  told 


i88         Cbe  jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

me ;  but  not  the  drops,  for  he  went  to 
sleep  again  almost  immediately." 

"  It  is  beyond  comprehension,"  he 
repeated.  "  But  you  are  looking  worn 
out,"  he  added,  glancing  sharply  at  her. 
"  I  must  see  Vieusseux  as  soon  as  may 
be ;  but  let  me  take  you  home  first." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Sceur  Anne  will  get  me  a  cab  pres- 
ently," she  said ;  and  then  after  a 
momentary  hesitation  she  continued, 
"  It  is  better  you  should  know,  Ray- 
mond, when — when  he  woke,  I  told 
him  of  the  Circe — of  his  success,  I 
mean,"  she  added  almost  timidly. 

Chaptel  stared  at  her  for  a  moment 
in  amaze.  Then  he  said  drily, — 

"  It  might  have  killed  him  instantan- 
eously, but '  a  succes  tout  honneur  !  ' 
and,  as  things  have  turned  out,  art  has 
done  what  science  could  not  do." 

"Dts,  Chaptel,"  she  said,  breaking 
the  silence  which  followed,  "you  are 
sure  he  will  live  ?  " 

"  As  certain  as  one  can  be  of  any- 
thing in  this  world,"  he  repeated,  this 
time  with  a  smile. 

"  Then,"  she  said,  looking  straight 
at  him,  "you  will  understand  that  I 
have  never  been  here.  There  must  be 


cbc  ff  law  in  tbe  /Ibarblc.          189 

no  question  of  that,  no  mention  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  M.  Lanthony  himself 
— you  understand?" 

"  I  understand,"  he  answered  slowly, 
averting  his  eyes.  "  It  is  only  known 
to  two  persons,  and,  as  far  as  I  myself 
am  concerned,  there  will  be  no  diffi- 
culty, for  it  is  not  necessary  that  I 
should  see  him  again.  But  Soeur 
Anne?  " 

"  Oh !  I  will  arrange  with  Soeur 
Anne.  He  has  had,  since  his  illness, 
many  dreams,  many  delusions,  she  tells 
me.  People  ill  as  he  is  often  have." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  this  will  be  a  dream  or  a  de- 
lusion, like  the  rest.  I  am  no  doctor, 
Raymond,  but,  believe  me,  it  is  best 
for  your  patient  that  it  should  be  so." 

Presumably  Chaptel  agreed  with  her, 
for  he  offered  no  objection  and  made 
no  further  comment.  But  he  muttered 
to  himself  "  Poor  devil !  "  as  he  went 

downstairs. 

***** 

Lanthony  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 
He  only  knew  that,  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  he  had  heard  a  whispered 
colloquy  between  Soeur  Anne  and 
Madeleine,  and  that  Soeur  Anne  had 


*9°        Gbe  jflaw  in  tbe  flbatble. 

left  the  room.  And  then  Madeleine 
had  knelt  down  by  his  bed  and  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  and  in 
a  moment  he  knew  she  was  crying — 
she  who  never  cried !  And  he  had 
said,— 

"Why  do  you  cry,  Madeleine?  I 
am  going  to  live — to  live  for  a  long 
time  and " 

"  Ah  !  mon  pauvre  ami  !  " 


PART  IV. 


"  A s  a  dream  when  one  awaketk" 


CHAPTER  I. 

CARROLIN  was  walking  across  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  on  his  way  to 
make  his  daily  inquiry  about  Lan- 
thony,  with  a  cold  dread  at  his  heart, 
which  had  become  chronic  to  the 
occasion,  when  Chaptel,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  passing,  stopped  him  and 
said, — 

"  Well !  your  friend  is  saved." 

"  Lanthony  ?     He " 

"  He  has  turned  the  corner,  and 
ought  now  to  make  rapid  progress 
towards  recovery." 

Carrolin  uncovered  his  head  for  a 
second  in  an  unconscious  tribute  of 
thankfulness;  then  warmly  shaking 
the  doctor  by  the  hand,  he  exclaimed, — 

"  How  proud  you  must  be,  Chaptel ! 
Why,  Brun  and  Vieusseux  both  agreed 


194         Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could 
save  him." 

"And  in  my  opinion  they  were 
right.  But  the  miracle  was  wrought — 
only  I  can  take  no  share  of  the  praise, 
for  I  had  nothing  to  say  to  it."  Then 
seeing  Carrolin's  look  of  inquiry,  he 
added,  "  It  was  simply  one  of  those 
extraordinary  efforts  of  nature — the 
instinctive  determination  to  live,  I 
suppose  one  may  call  it — which  science 
can  neither  account  for  nor  explain 
away." 

"  When  do  you  see  him  again  ?  " 

"There  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
do  so.  He  has  the  best  of  care  and 
treatment,  and  nothing  remains  now 
but  to  get  his  strength  up.  Besides,  I 
simply  attended  him  for  the  sake  of  an 
extra  opinion  which,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  has  turned  out  valueless." 

They  parted,  and  Carrolin,  changing 
his  course,  turned  up  the  Avenue  des 
Champs  Elysees  to  inform  Madeleine 
Le  Fagon  of  what  he  had  just  heard. 
He  would  probably  have  been  refused 
admittance  at  so  early  an  hour  but 
that,  when  the  door  was  opened,  he 
found  her  talking  in  the  hall  to  a  man 
whom  he  recognized  as  an  auctioneer 


fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         195 

of  the  Rue  Drouot.  "  You  will  then 
please  lose  no  time,"  she  was  saying, 
"  in  sending  some  competent  person 
to  make  the  inventory."  Then  mov- 
ing a  step  forward  she  caught  sight  of 
Carrolin,  and  said,  "  Come  in,  Mon- 
sieur Carrolin,  I  shall  be  at  liberty  in  a 
moment." 

"  We  can  begin  this  afternoon,  if 
you  wish,  madame,"  said  the  man. 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  was  her 
reply  ;  and  motioning  to  Carrolin  to 
follow  her,  she  led  the  way  to  her 
boudoir. 

Now  that  she  stood  in  a  clear  light, 
he  saw  that  she  looked  pale  and 
harassed,  and  in  such  discovery  he 
forgot  for  the  moment  the  object  of 
his  visit. 

"  Eh  bien,  Leon,  what  is  it  ?  I  am 
very  busy  this  morning,"  she  said, 
with  a  sort  of  nervous  impatience  in 
her  tone. 

"  I  shall  not  detain  you  long,"  he 
replied  ;  "  I — I  only  came  to  tell  you 
that  Paul  Lanthony  is  recovering." 

"Ah!     Who  told  you  ?" 

"  I  met  Chaptel,  who  had  been 
called  in  when  the  others  gave  up  all 
hope." 


196         £be  fflaw  in  tbe  flbatble. 

"  Ah !  never  say  die,  Carrolin !  I 
told  you  Chaptel  would  save  your 
friend,  if  any  one  could." 

"  But  he  says  he  had  nothing  to  say 
to  it — it  is  a  miracle  which  he  can 
neither  deny  nor  explain." 

A  momentary  flash  which  he  could 
not  account  for  lit  up  her  eyes,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  their  colloquy  she 
smiled.  Then  she  said, — 

"  Well,  I  am  very  glad  for  you  and 
for — your  friend.  It  would  have  been 
a  pity  if  his  career  had  been  cut  short 
before  it  was  well  begun." 

They  both  remained  silent,  he  long- 
ing to  ask  a  question  which  he  dared 
not  formulate,  and  she,  apparently, 
lost  in  her  own  reflections.  She  was 
rapidly  revolving  in  her  mind  the  ad- 
visability of  taking  Carrolin  into  her 
confidence  as  to  the  events  of  the 
previous  night.  He  was  still  her 
friend,  though  he  had  wished  to  be 
more,  and  she  trusted  him  as  she 
Jrusted  very  few  people.  Finally  she 
decided  against  it ;  two  people  already 
knew  the  fact  of  her  visit  to  Lanthony, 
and  that  was  two  too  many,  but  pro- 
fessional reasons  ensured  their  silence, 
and  she  had  more  faith  in  that  than  in 


Jflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         197 

the  discretion  of  friendship.  She  felt, 
besides,  that  in  Carrolin's  case  the 
exigencies  of  friendship  would  neces- 
sarily be  conflicting,  and  she  deter- 
mined not  to  risk  it.  Having  thus 
mentally  disposed  of  the  point,  she 
turned  to  him  and  said  suddenly, — 

"  I  told  you  I  was  very  busy,  and 
not  without  reason — I  am  leaving 
Paris." 

"Leaving  Paris!"  he  repeated  in  a 
dazed  sort  of  way,  "  when,  and  for  how 
long  ?  " 

"  One  question  at  a  time,  mon  bon" 
she  replied,  smiling.  "  When  ? — al- 
most immediately  ;  for  how  long  ? — I 
cannot  tell." 

"  Why  ?  "  coming  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

"  More  questions  !  Why  ?  Oh  !  for 
no  very  special  reason,  and  for  quite  a 
number  of  reasons.  Firstly,  because  I 
am  tired  of  it;  secondly,  because  about 
a  fortnight  ago  I  received  an  offer  from 
St.  Petersburg  which  I  am  disposed  to 
accept." 

"  And  your  engagement  here  ?  "  ne 
asked,  more  to  gain  time  to  collect  his 
thoughts  than  because  he  at  all  cared 
for  information  on  the  point. 

"  I    have    written   to   Thibaud   and 


198         tlbe  Jflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

offered  him  any  compensation  within 
reason  that  he  chooses  to  ask.  But  he 
will  really  rather  gain  by  my  move. 
He  will  get  a  considerable  amount  of 
money  out  of  me  for  his  imaginary  loss 
by  my  breach  of  contract,  and  as  Marie 
Leyder  has  been  my  understudy  now 
for  nearly  two  years,  and  is  word- 
perfect  in  all  my  parts,  neither  the 
piece  in  hand,  nor  those  promised  on 
the  list  need  be  changed." 

At  any  other  time  Carrolin  would 
have  laughed  aloud  at  the  idea  of  a 
possible  substitute  for  Le  Fagon,  but 
all  other  considerations  were  swamped 
in  the  capital  one  of  her  departure. 

"  It  all  fits  in  very  a  propos"  she 
went  on  ;  "  for  some  Americans  whose 
acquaintance  I  made  the  other  day  de- 
clare themselves  willing  to  take  my 
house  off  my  hands  at  my  own  valu- 
ation, and  Simon  of  the  Rue  Drouot 
promises  me  splendid  results  from  the 
sale  of  such  things  as  I  am  willing  to 
part  with.  It  is  a  great  thing,  Leon," 
she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a  curious 
smile,  "  to  take  leave  of  people  before 
they  are  tired  of  one." 

He  was  silent,  gazing  at  her  with 
all  his  eyes. 


jflaw  in  tbe  fl&arble.         199 

"  But,  Madeleine,"  he  said  at  last,  in 
a  voice  which  seemed  to  him  to  be- 
long to  some  one  else,  "  when  will  you 
come  back  again  ?  " 

"Ah!  that,  mon  ami,  I  cannot  tell." 

"  But  you  will  come  back?"  he  per- 
sisted. 

"  Perhaps — who  knows  ?  " 

A  servant  came  in  to  tell  her  that 
some  men  of  business  were  waiting, 
and  Carrolin  took  his  leave.  He 
walked  downstairs  like  one  in  a  dream. 
This  was  a  day  of  surprises.  "  Per- 
haps— who  knows?"  he  repeated 
stupidly,  half  aloud. 

Left  to  herself,  Madeleine  stood 
musing  a  moment,  and  a  strange  mist 
seemed  to  rise  before  her  eyes  as  she 
murmured, — 

"  It  is  the  only  way :  sometimes 
prudence  is  worth  more  than  courage." 


CHAPTER  II. 

LANTHONY  slept  on  through  many 
hours,  and  when  he  awoke  the  grey- 
robed  figure  was  still  kneeling  by  his 
bed,  its  face  bent  downwards.  He 
turned  himself  slightly  with  an  effort, 
and  kissed  the  top  of  the  white  coiffe. 
The  figure  lifted  its  head,  and  lo ! 
Soeur  Anne  had  changed  her  face  again  ! 
Yes,  this  was  none  other  than  the 
seamed  and  tanned  countenance  that 
he  knew  so  well ;  but  at  his  greeting 
she  looked  up  at  him  with  such  an  ir- 
radiating glow  of  gentle  joyfulness  re- 
flected, as  it  were,  from  her  lately  whis- 
pered thanksgivings,  that  Lanthony 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  regret 
his  mistake.  As  for  Soeur  Anne,  she 
regarded  it  simply  as  a  natural  ebulli- 
tion of  that  universal  kindness  which 
belongs  not  infrequently  to  those  who 


Cbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         201 

have  visited  the  dark  valley,  and  have 
been,  as  by  a  miracle,  snatched  back 
again  to  life. 

Where  was  Madeleine,  Lanthony 
wondered.  She  had  probably  gone 
into  the  next  room  to  rest ;  she  would 
be  back  presently,  and  he  was  content 
just  to  lie  and  await  her  coming.  But 
as  the  hours  went  on  he  began  to  get 
restless  and  impatient  of  the  long  delay. 
At  last  he  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  said  to  Sceur  Anne, — 

"  Where  is — where    is — that    lady?" 

Then,  as  she  looked  at  him  blankly, 
he  added  irritably, — 

"  The  lady  who  was  here  last  night — 
who  watched  by  me  when  you  were 
not  here?" 

Sceur  Anne  smiled  indulgently  as  she 
replied,  shaking  her  wise  old  head, — 

"Ah!  that  must  have  been  some 
beautiful  dream  you  had.  You  have 
been  dreaming,  you  know,  monsieur, 
about  one  thing  and  another  for  ever 
so  long.  When  at  the  beginning  you 
were  very  ill,  your  dreams  were  sad  or 
terrible,  and  now  that  you  are  better, 
they  are  good  and  beautiful.  It  is 
often  like  that." 

"  But  this  was  no  dream,"   he    per- 


202         Gbe  JFlaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

sisted.  "  Surely  you  must  know  that. 
I  saw  her  and  spoke  to  her,  and  she  to 
me  of — of  many  things." 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,  cher  mon- 
sieur,''1 murmured  Sceur  Anne. 

It  was  clear  to  her  from  what  the 
beautiful  lady  had  said,  and  from  what 
she  had  told  her  Chaptel  had  said,  that 
it  was  her  duty  to  persist  in  this  right- 
eous lie ;  but  ft  was  repugnant  to  her 
nature,  and  her  difficulty  was  increased 
by  the  sight  of  Lanthony's  distress. 
For  she  had  seen  too  much  of  unavoid- 
able suffering  to  willingly  inflict  a 
moment's  pain  on  any  living  being. 

"You  must  be  mistaken,  cher  mon- 
sieur" she  repeated  softly. 

"  But  I  tell  you  there  is  no  mistake," 
he  said  in  a  louder  tone,  and  trying  to 
raise  himself. 

She  was  saved  the  embarrassment  of 
a  reply  which  might  have  further 
taxed  he-r  conflicting  sense  of  honor 
by  a  ring  at  the  door.  It  was  Brun  ar- 
riving for  the  second  time  that  day,  and 
on  opening  to  him  she  informed  him  in 
a  word  of  the  sick  man's  present  preoc- 
cupation, which  he  naturally  set  down 
to  some  passing  delusion  arising  from 
weakness  and  fever.  His  course,  know- 


fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble.         203 

ing  as  he  did  absolutely  nothing  of  the 
real  facts  of  the  case,  was  so  refreshingly 
simple  that  poor  Soeur  Anne  found  her- 
self envying  him  with  all  her  heart. 

Retold  Lanthony  point-blank  that  he 
was  talking  nonsense,  that  such  fancies 
were  an  inevitable  part  of  his  illness, 
and  that  he  was  a  lucky  dog  to  have 
such  pleasant  phantoms  hanging  about 
his  sick-bed — most  people,  he  said,  went 
in  for  less  attractive  visitants.  "  But 
now,"  he  went  on,  "  we  must  devote 
ourselves  to  graver  matters  than  dream- 
ing about  fair  ladies.  They  won't 
help  you  to  get  well,  and  what  I  want 
is  to  see  you  up  and  about  again." 

So  he  prescribed  absolute  quiet,  and 
implicit  obedience  to  Soeur  Anne,  and 
went  his  way  to  those  who  had  more 
need  of  his  presence. 

When  Brun  had  gone  Lanthony 
turned  hopelessly  restive ;  he  refused  to 
swallow  the  medicine  which  Sceur  Anne 
implored  him  to  take,  he  vowed  every 
one  was  in  league  to  deceive  him  ;  and 
he  would  have  started  then  and  there 
on  a  voyage  of  discovery  round  his 
rooms,  but  that  he  was  forced  to  con- 
fess, with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  even 
that  little  journey  was  far  beyond  his 


204         3be  flaw  in  tbe  /fcnrblc. 

powers.  But  he  declined  to  accept 
Soeur  Anne's  assurances  that  there 
neither  was,  nor  had  been,  any  one 
there  besides  herself  and  the  doctors, 
and  this  morning  M.  Carrolin,  who  was 
coming  again  in  the  afternoon.  Well, 
he  wished  Carrolin  would  come — he  at 
any  rate  did  not  tell  lies  or  torment  peo- 
ple. At  this  graceless  remark  Soeur 
Anne's  eyes,  too,  filled  with  tears,  but 
he  was  too  excited  to  notice  them. 

She  was  on  the  point  of  sending 
word  to  Carrolin  to  hasten  his  coming, 
when  he  arrived. 

Soeur  Anne  told  him  of  Lanthony's 
condition  in  the  short  passage  from  the 
outer  door  to  the  sick-room,  and  the 
moment  he  appeared  his  friend  burst 
out  into  a  breathless,  excited  account 
about  his  visitor  of  the  night  before, 
and  of  the  cabal  between  Soeur  Anne 
and  Brun  to  make  him  believe  it  was 
all  a  dream. 

"  I  believe  she's  in  the  next  room 
now ;  I'd  go  and  see  myself,  only  I 
can't — I'm  so  cursedly  weak  ;  but,  you 
go,  Leon,  like  a  good  fellow.  I'll  be- 
lieve you — I'll " 

And  here  he  fell  back  exhausted  on 
his  pillows. 


Cbe  flaw  in  tbc  /Barbie.         205 

Carrolin  stood  soothingly  pressing  his 
hand,  doubtful  what  to  say,  when  Lan- 
thony  roused  himself  again  and  said, — 

"  Here,  bend  your  head  down,  L£on, 
I'll  tell  you.  You  will  never  let  it  pass 
your  lips,  I  know.  Closer — so."  And 
then  he  whispered  eagerly  :  "  It  was 
Madeleine,  Leon,  Madeleine  herself — 
she  was  here  and  she  told  me — well — 
oh  !  she  told  me  a  lot  of  things,"  he 
wound  up  feebly. 

Carrolin's  was  a  very  simple  nature, 
little  fitted  for  dealing  with  the  com- 
plexities of  life,  and  it  always  seemed 
to  him  that  the  plainest  way  out  of  a 
difficulty  was  to  tell  the  truth  as  far 
as  he  knew  it.  So  he  applied  his  gen- 
eral rule  to  this  particular  instance. 

"  But,  Paul,  I  saw  her  myself  only  a 
few  hours  since  at  her  own  house." 

And  by  one  of  those  strange  freaks 
of  mental  balance  which  defy  scientific 
explanation,  this  plain  statement  of 
actual  fact  seemed  to  do  more  to  quiet 
Lanthony  than  the  most  elaborate 
reasonings  or  repeated  asseverations 
could  have  done. 

What  a  fool  he  was,  he  told  himself  $ 
of  course  she  had  returried  to  her  own 
house.  How  could  she  have  stayed 


•'206         *lbe  IFlaw  in  tbe 

'here,  with  doctors  coming  and  going, 
'and  Heaven  knows  who  besides?  It 
'was  only  right  and  proper  that  she 
Should  have  gone,  he  mentally  reiter- 
ated, but  she  might  have  left  some 
word  or  message  for  him  to  cheer  him 
when  he  woke.  But,  bah  !  what  need 
'was  there  of  further  words  between 
them?  Last  night  she  had  told  him 
all  there  was  to  know;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  add  to  it,  and  nothing  could 
take  it  away.  She  could  not  now  be 
with  him ;  of  course  not — he  saw  that 
• — and  she  had  gone  to  wait  for  him  till 
he  should  be  able  to  go  and  seek  her, 
and  then — ah  !  then  !  So  he  meekly 
'  took  his  medicine,  begged  Sceur  Anne's 
pardon  with  such  a  winning  air  of  con- 
trition that  it  did  more  to  unnerve  her 
than  all  his  hard  words  had  done,  and 
with  his  hand  held  in  her  two  withered 
^ones,  and  his  good  friend  by  his  bed, 
he  fell  once  more  asleep. 

There  was  no  recurrence  of  the  rest- 
lessness which  the  three  kindly  watch- 
ers over  his  well-being  looked  for  and 
dreaded.  His  whole  energy  was  ab- 
sorbed in  fitting  himself,  by  an  unswerv- 
ing obedience  to  the  dreary  regime  of 
Convalescence,  for  the  time  when  he 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Garble.         207- 

should  at  length  be  able  to  go  forth 
and  meet  the  woman  he  loved.  He 
did  everything  he  was  told,  ate,  drank, 
slept,  according  to  the  rules  prescribed 
for  him,  and  even  (and  this  was  the 
hardest  effort  for  him,  and  the  least 
explainable  wonder  to  those  about  him) 
refrained  from  all  forbidden  exertion. 
He  was  so  intent  upon  getting  on, 
that  he  tacitly  admitted  the  wisdom  of 
that  hard  saying,  "  the  more  haste  the 
worse  speed,"  and  was  content  to  bide 
his  time  with  apparent  patience.  He 
never  changed  his  idea  with  regard  to 
Madeleine's  absence  and  silence,  only, 
as  the  slow  tale  of  days  crawled  past, 
he  allowed  himself  the  satisfaction  of 
sending  her  a  message — a  few  scrawled 
pencil-lines  which  all  the  world  might 
have  read,  and  which  he  begged  Carro- 
lin  to  take  to  her.  That  little  note  was 
destined  to  remain  for  ever  unan- 
swered. He  had  asked  for  no  reply  ; 
and  day  by  day  Carrolin  entered  dread- 
ing some  question  which  would  be 
hard  to  satisfy.  The  question  never 
came,  but  Carrolin  felt  with  a  pang,  as 
the  other's  eyes  scanned  his  face  with  a- 
mute  eagerness,  that  such  restraintof  si- 
lence must  be  hard  indeed  to  his  friend. 


fflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble. 

Both  Brun  and  Carrolin  were  sur- 
prised and  delighted  with  Lanthony 's 
ready  acquiescence  in  what  was  decided 
to  be  best  for  him,  and  held  it  to  be,  in 
itself,  a  sign  of  more  rapid  progress 
towards  health  than  they  had  ventured 
to  hope  for.  Only  Sceur  Anne,  who 
was  more  learned  in  the  usual  ups  and 
downs  of  convalescence,  shook  her  old 
head  with  a  sense  of  misgiving.  She 
would  have  been  puzzled  to  find  a 
tangible  excuse  for  her  gloomy  fore- 
bodings, but  instinct  is  independent  of 
reason,  and  shots  in  the  dark  some- 
times strike  true. 

For  a  good  many  days  Lanthony  had 
just  been  lifted  from  his  bed  to  a  sofa, 
where  he  lay  all  day,  and  in  course  of 
time  had  been  promoted  to  sitting  up 
for  a  few  hours  in  an  armchair ;  and 
one  morning  Brun  told  him  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  for  him  "  to  try  his  legs  a 
little,  and  suggested  his  walking  about 
the  room,"  aided  by  Sceur  Anne's 
friendly  support. 

In  the  course  of  his  life  Lanthony  no 
doubt  made  many  journeys — one  of 
which  you  will  hear  about  by-and-by — 
but  it  is  to  be  questioned  whether  he 
ever  undertook  one  that  seemed  so 


Cbc  if  law  in  tbe  /Barbie.         209 

difficult  or  so  weary,  as  that  little 
journey  round  the  two  small  rooms  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Valliere,  supported  on 
one  side  by  Sceur  Anne  and  on  the 
other  by  Carrolin. 

It  did  more  to  convince  him  of  the 
remorseless  power  of  weakness,  of  the 
inexorable  bounds  of  mortal  capacity, 
than  anything  else  ever  did.  Here  was 
he,  longing  with  as  keen  a  yearning  as 
ever  prisoner  felt,  to  arise  and  go  forth 
into  the  smiling  world  which  lay  out- 
side those  four  walls,  yet  as  little  able 
to  use  his  liberty  as  though  he  were 
shackled  with  chains  and  handcuffs, 
and  guarded  by  watchful  gaolers  and 
dungeon  bars. 

At  a  different  stage  of  his  illness, 
when  there  had  been  no  motive  for  any 
exertion,  he  had  welcomed  the  feeble- 
ness which  made  complete  inaction 
not  only  possible  but  blissful.  Now 
that  returning  life  brought  with  it 
common  desires  and  common  needs, 
he  bitterly  cursed  the  limitation  of  his 
physical  powers.  What  a  waste  of 
time  it  seemed  !  One  lives  but  once, 
he  repeated  to  himself  with  impotent 
rage,  and  precious  hours  and  days  were 
sliding  past  never  to  return,  while  with 


210         Gbe  aflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

slow  and  painful  steps  he  mounted  the 
hill  which  led  from  the  gates  of  death 
back  again  to  life. 

But  everything  comes  at  length  to 
him  who  waits,  and  at  last  the  great 
day  dawned  when  Brun  decided  that 
the  moment  had  arrived  for  his  patient 
to  go  for  a  drive.  Carrolin  had  for 
some  time  dreaded,  as  well  as  wished 
for,  that  day.  Matters  were  compara- 
tively simple  while  Lanthony  was  per- 
force confined  to  his  room ;  but  once 
able  to  leave  it,  Carrolin  knew  that  his 
body  would  follow  the  road  his  heart  had 
been  traveling  so  long,  and  he  looked 
forward  with  apprehension  to  the  con- 
sequences of  that  useless  journey — 
for  Madeleine  Le  Fagon  had  left  Paris. 

That  morning,  for  the  first  time  for 
several  weeks,  Lanthony  betrayed  a 
restless  excitement.  Carrolin  was  to 
come  for  him  at  eleven ;  he  insisted  on 
Sceur  Anne's  getting  him  out  of  bed 
and  helping  him  to  dress  at  nine,  and 
he  further  requested  her  to  send  for  a 
barber  to  shave  him  and  trim  his  hair, 
which  had  grown  long  and  wild  during 
his  illness.  She  thought  it  well  to 
humor  him  in  what  seemed  to  her  a 
very  natural  fancy,  and  the  barber  was 
accordingly  summoned. 


fflaw  in  tbe  d&arble.         211 

During  that  little  voyage  round  the 
room,  of  which  I  have  told  you,  it 
chanced  that  Lanthony  had  caught 
sight  of  his  own  face  in  a  mirror  on  the 
wall,  and  he  had  shrunk  back  in  amaze 
before  the  haggard,  grizzled  travesty 
of  his  former  self,  that  he  had  there 
beheld.  It  cooled  his  ardor  consider- 
ably as  to  hastening  on  the  day  of  his 
first  outing,  for  he  could  not  bear  the 
idea  that  Madeleine  should  see  him  like 
that.  He  consoled  himself  by  think- 
ing that  his  altered  appearance  was  in 
great  measure  due  to  his  bristling 
beard  and  unkempt  locks,  and  these  at 
any  rate  were  easily  remedied.  When 
the  barber  had  finished  his  job  and 
departed,  Soeur  Anne  tied  on  Lan- 
thony's  cravat  for  him,  helped  him  into 
his  carefully  brushed  coat,  and  then,  as 
he  sat  in  his  armchair  awaiting  his 
friend,  she  held  a  looking-glass  before 
him,  smiling  the  while,  that  he  might, 
as  she  said,  see  "  how  fine  "  he  looked 
to-day ! 

But  the  kind  action  apparently 
failed  in  its  intent,  for  he  pushed  away 
the  merciless  reflector,  and  covering  his 
face  with  his  hands,  murmured  to  him- 
self,— 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

"  Another  delay  !  Mon  Dieu  ! — it  can- 
not be  to-day,  it  cannot  be  to-day !" 

Carrolin  and  Brun  carried  him  down- 
stairs and  placed  him  in  the  carriage, 
which  slowly  threaded  a  careful  way 
along  the  crowded  streets  towards  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  Brun  had  laid  spe- 
cial stress  on  the  necessity  of  getting 
him  outside  into  the  fresher  air  which  lay 
beyond  the  town,  and  would  hear  none 
of  the  objections  which  Carrolin  urged. 
The  one  which  lay  at  the  root  of  the 
matter  he  did  not  feel  authorized  to 
mention,  but  it  was  very  present  to  his 
mind.  In  order  to  reach  the  Bois  by 
the  smoothest  and  most  direct  route, 
they  would  have  to  pass  up  the 
Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  Madeleine's  door. 
He  granted  himself,  however,  the  poor 
consolation  of  believing  that  with  a 
man  like  Lanthony  the  proposed  di- 
rection of  their  drive  mattered  very 
little,  if  but  once  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  to  a  particular  place. 

To  his  infinite  relief  and  surprise, 
however,  as  they  passed  the  house 
Lanthony  took  no  notice,  did  not  even 
look  up,  and  seemed  entirely  occupied 
in  pressing  his  hat  further  over  his 


Cbc  ff  law  in  tbe  Aarble.         213 

eyes,  and  turning  up  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  more  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
desires  to  elude  observation  than  of 
one  who  wishes  to  see  and  be  seen. 
Alas !  poor  friend,  those  eyes  whose 
serene  scrutiny  you  fear  with  a  humil- 
ity born  of  love,  are  far  enough  distant 
by  this  time.  So  all  had  gone  well  be- 
yond expectation,  Carrolin  assured 
Soeur  Anne  on  their  return,  and  Lan- 
thony,  though  naturally  very  tired, 
seemed  none  the  worse  for  his  venture. 

"  Souvent  lanuit  porte  conseil" 
though  not  always  of  the  wisest  or 
most  desirable  kind.  As  Lanthony  lay 
awake  that  night,  listening  to  the 
clock  ticking,  and  watching  the  slender 
flicker  of  the  night-light,  he  felt  half 
ashamed  of  the  feeble  vanity  which 
had  led  him  to  doubt  the  love  of  the 
woman  he  loved.  His  mind  was  made 
up — he  would  waste  no  more  time  in 
fruitless  and  wearying  delay ;  to-mor- 
row he  would  go  to  her.  What  differ- 
ence could  it  make  to  that  supreme 
and  gracious  tenderness  if  he  were 
maimed,  or  halt,  or  blind  ? 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  she  had 
said ;  and  should  he  doubt  the  power 
and  reality  of  that  love  which  had 


214         tlbe  fflaw  in  tbe  flbarbte, 

snatched  him  back  from  the  jaws  of 
death  ?  Besides,  he  was  not  always 
going  to  be  like  this — a  wretched  blot 
in  a  world  of  light.  She  who  had  al- 
ready worked  one  miracle,  would  per- 
form the  far  lesser  one  of  restoring  him 
to  health  and  strength  again,  and  with 
the  hope  of  her  promise  in  his  heart, 
he  would  live  to  do  great  things. 

Next  day  Carrolin  came  with  a 
lighter  heart  to  take  his  friend  out 
again. 

'"  Ce  nest  que  le  premier  pas  qui 
cotite"  he  said  gaily,  as  he  mounted 
the  stairs.  But  he  counted  without 
that  improbability  which  his  compa- 
triots tell  us  is  the  only  certainty.  All 
went  smoothly  as  on  the  former  occa- 
sion, till  suddenly  as  they  were  passing 
Madeleine's  gate,  Lanthony  called  out 
to  the  driver, — 

"No.  25,  on  the  left!" 

"  Stop,"  shouted  Carrolin  to  the 
coachman,  who  had  already  turned  his 
horse's  head ;  and  he  had  perforce  to 
wait  until  a  huge  railway-van,  laden 
with  packing-cases,  made  its  slow  way 
out  of  the  gate. 

"  Paul,"  gasped  poor  Carrolin,  "  it  is 
no  use — she  is  not  there." 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         215 

"At  St.  Cloud  then?"  asked  Lan- 
thony.  Carrolin  shook  his  head. 

"  She— she  has  left  Paris." 

"  Seeing  is  believing,"  said  Lanthony 
calmly,  though  his  face  was  deathly 
pale.  "  I  wish  to  see  for  myself." 

Their  carriage  made  its  way  to  the 
door,  where  a  porter  in  shirt-sleeves 
came  out  to  answer  their  inquiries. 

"  Madame  has  left  town  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  man  with 
an  air  of  puzzled  surprise  at  such  ex- 
traordinary ignorance ;  "she  left  three 
weeks  ago  for  St.  Petersburg." 

Lanthony  was  silent  for  a  moment ; 
then  he  said,  getting  out  of  the  car- 
riage, — 

"  I  should  like  to  go  upstairs." 

As  the  porter  looked  hesitatingly  at 
Carrolin,  a  short,  stout,  over-dressed 
man  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and 
after  a  few  words  of  explanation  from 
Carrolin,  said  with  a  strong  American 
accent, — 

"  Why,  certainly,  anywhere  you 
please.  You'll  find  it  all  in  sad  disor- 
der— sale,  you  know,  and  all  that,  and 
I  haven't  had  time  to  fix  up  my  furni- 
ture and  things  yet.  But  it's  a  mag- 
nificent  house,  sir,  yes,  and  I  have 


2i 6         Cbc  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

gained  by  the  departure  which  all 
Purriss  ^plores." 

Lanthony  thanked  him,  and,  turn- 
ing to  his  friend,  said  wearily, — 

"  I  am  tired,  Carrolin,  take  me 
home  ;  "  and  they  drove  off,  leaving  the 
affable  American  not  a  little  amazed  at 
their  abrupt  departure. 

The  homeward  drive  was  got  through 
in  perfect  silence.  Soeur  Anne  ex- 
pressed her  surprise  at  their  returning 
so  early,  and  hoped  nothing  had  gone 
wrong ;  and  Lanthony  reassured  her 
by  saying,— 

"  Oh  !  no;  but  I  get  so  soon  tired." 

He  was  helped  off  with  his  hat  and 
coat,  and  settled  on  the  sofa,  and  there 
he  lay  so  unnaturally  still  and  silent 
that  Carrolin  found  himself  wishing  for 
the  outburst  which  he  had  dreaded. 
It  did  not  come,  however,  and  as  Lan- 
thony, lying  with  closed  eyes,  seemed 
to  have  sunk  into  settled  quiet,  he  took 
his  leave.  Lanthony  meanwhile  was 
rapidly  summing  up  the  situation  in 
his  mind.  There  was  some  mistake 
somewhere,  what,  he  could  not  tell, 
but  it  must  be  cleared  up.  She  had 
gone  to  St.  Petersburg  ;  well,  he  would 
follow  her  there — he  would  follow  her 


£be  if  taw  in  tbe  fflarble.         217 

across  the  world,  if  necessary — and 
when  they  met  all  misunderstanding 
would  be  at  an  end.  He  would  go  to 
Vienna  and  buy  back  the  Circe  from 
that  beast  Hatz,  (for  he  had  now  been 
informed  of  that  transaction),  and  they 
three,  Madeleine,  he,  and  the  Circe, 
would  all  come  back  together  and 
live  happy  ever  after.  It  was  all  right, 
he  told  himself,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
table,  which  was  still  covered  with 
proposals  from  dealers,  applications  for 
permission  to  reproduce  his  last  and 
all  his  other  work,  congratulatory  let- 
ters,— all  the  sundry  petty  signs  of  the 
success  which  had  suddenly  come  to 
him.  And  as  for  the  happiness  which 
had,  as  suddenly,  befallen  him,  if  there 
was  no  tangible  evidence  of  that  before 
his  eyes,  he  needed  none,  for  his  own  ex- 
istence seemed  to  him  an  unanswerable 
proof.  He  had  been  dying,  and  "  on  ne 
revient  pas  de  si  loin  pour  peu  de  chose" 

Only,  when  they  were  alone,  with 
most  surprising  inconsistency,  he  laid 
his  head  upon  Sceur  Anne's  rough 
serge  breast  and  cried  like  a  little  child. 

This  lonely  old  saint,  who  had  never 
had  a  child,  was  yet  one  of  the  mothers 
of  the  world,  and  with  an  inborn  in- 


218         Gbe  JFlaw  (n  tbe  jfflbarble. 

stinct  she  soothed  and  comforted  him 
as  though  she  had  won  the  secret  of 
motherhood  through  the  common 
course  of  its  woes  and  joys.  Soeur 
Anne  never  asked  questions,  but  as 
she  tenderly  stroked  his  poor  cropped, 
grizzled  head,  she  mumured  softly, — 

"  Ah  !  my  poor,  poor  boy — death  is 
terrible — but  life  is  hard.  God  in  his 
mercy  help  and  watch  over  us." 

She  was  a  very  womanly  woman, 
was  Sceur  Anne,  yet  in  this  moment 
of  another's  distress  she  forgot  to 
triumph  at  the  fulfillment  of  her  own 
forebodings. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  was,  even  to  her- 
self, an  unknown  phrase  in  her  vocab- 
ulary. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Nature  cannot  withstand  certain 
strains,  and  Lanthony  had  a  relapse 
which  for  many  long  weeks  retarded 
the  accomplishment  of  his  intended 
journey.  At  length,  however,  he  was 
free  to  go.  The  last  day  he  was  in 
Paris  he  drove  down  to  St.  Cloud  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Madeleine's  empty  villa. 

The  unplucked  roses  were  all 
a-bloom  in  the  deserted  garden,  and  ran 
riot  over  the  outer  railings,  on  one  of 


fflaw  in  tbe  dBarble.         219 

which  high  up  was  hung  a  placard 
with  the  following  inscription  :  "  A 
loner  ou  h  vendre.  S'adresser  h  M. 
AlpJionse  Guilbert,  Rue  des  Petits 
Ptres,  No.  28" 

He  rang,  and  was  admitted  by  a 
slatternly  woman  who,  in  answer  to 
his  inquiry  as  to  whether  he  could  see 
the  place,  readily  admitted  him.  She 
proceeded  to  the  house,  expatiating  to 
an  imaginary  listener  on  its  many  ad- 
vantages, as  she  unbarred  the  long- 
closed  shutters  and  let  a  flood  of  sun- 
light into  the  silent  rooms.  Lanthony, 
however,  did  not  get  beyond  the  gar- 
den, and  of  all  the  unheeded  wealth 
of  sweetness  there  he  claimed  for  him- 
self only  one  tiny  sprig  of  sweet-smell- 
ing geranium.  He  was  no  intending 
purchaser,  he  informed  the  voluble 
caretaker — the  place  was  altogether 
beyond  his  means.  But  he  left  joy  be- 
hind him  in  the  shape  of  a  golden  fee. 

Inanimate  things  often  speak  to  us 
with  resistless  voices,  and  as  he  drove 
back  to  Paris  he  felt  with  a  chilling 
intuition  that  the  past  was  past  in- 
deed. And  the  future?  Ah!  well, 
the  future,  as  Sceur  Anne  would  say, 
was  the  secret  of  God. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  night  train  steamed  slowly  out 
of  the  central  station  of  St.  Peters- 
burg on  its  way  to  the  south,  bumping 
and  clanking  over  crossings  and  turn- 
ing plates,  and  announcing  its  de- 
parture by  a  long-drawn,  brain-pierc- 
ing whistle  ending  in  an  abrupt 
shriek. 

Lanthony  sat  in  the  corner  of  an 
empty  compartment,  staring  out  of  the 
window  as  the  vanishing  lights  of  the 
town  whirled  backwards,  and  were  suc- 
ceeded in  their  turn  by  the  black 
silhouettes  of  flying  trees,  which,  in 
course  of  time,  gave  place  to  wide, 
trackless  plains  stretching  away  into 
infinite  darkness.  Here  and  there,  at 
long  intervals,  the  middle  distance  was 
dotted  with  the  white  uncertain  lights 


(Tbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie.         221 

of  some  scattered  hamlet,  outside 
which  the  tall  crosses  of  a  cemetery 
stretched  their  arms  to  the  dome  of 
sky  above,  as  though  in  mute  despair- 
ing appeal ;  and  then  nothing  again 
was  to  be  seen  but  the  endless  monot- 
ony of  the  limitless  plain. 

The  object  of  the  slow  patience  of 
his  months  of  convalescence  was  ac- 
complished :  he  had  made  the  journey 
across  Europe  only  to  find  it  fruitless, 
for  Madeleine  Le  Fagon  had  already 
left  St.  Petersburg  for  Vienna.  Once 
able  to  start,  he  had  carried  through 
his  plan  with  a  feverish  impatience 
which  knew  of  no  fatigue  and  recog- 
nized no  obstacles;  and  day  and  night 
he  had  traveled  without  stopping  until 
he  had  reached  his  destination,  only, 
as  I  have  said,  to  find  her  gone.  And 
twelve  hours  later  he  had  started 
again,  this  time  for  Vienna. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  long,  lonely 
hours  of  travel  had  forced  unwilling 
reflection  upon  him,  or  that  extreme 
fatigue  had  at  last  asserted  its  power 
with  resistless  force,  or  through  some 
indefinite  combination  of  the  two,  I 
cannot  say;  but  now  he  found  himself 
wondering  why  he  had  ever  under- 


222         Woe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

taken  the  journey  at  all.  At  best  it 
was  but  a  fool's  errand,  he  told  him- 
self, for,  even  had  he  seen  the  person 
he  had  come  to  seek,  she  could  have 
told  him  no  more  than  he  knew  al- 
ready. Her  abrupt  departure,  her 
long-continued  silence,  (once  he  was 
able  to  think  clearly  about  them,)  left 
him  no  illusions.  Either  she  had 
changed  her  mind — all  women  change 
their  minds,  and  she,  people  said,  more 
frequently  than  most — or  Sceur  Anne 
and  the  rest  were  right  (though  he  still 
fought  desperately  in  his  inmost  self 
against  such  conclusion)  and  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard  was  but  the  de- 
lusion of  a  brain  impotent  through 
sickness,  the  mere  vision  of  a  fading 
dream.  She  would  confirm  the  others, 
if  asked  about  it,  and  he  felt  he  could 
not  hold  out  against  such  seal  of  con- 
firmation. He  had  now,  he  said  to 
himself,  rather  not  see  her,  for  if  he 
saw  her  he  should  ask  her,  and  he 
dreaded  the  absolute  knowledge  which 
would  thus  be  forced  upon  him.  Why 
then  was  he  going  to  Vienna  ?  Not  to 
see  her,  but  to  look  once  again  upon 
her  likeness  that  he  had  made,  and,  if 
possible,  buy  it  back  for  himself. 


Cbe  jflaw  in  tbc  Garble.         223 

That,  at  any  rate,  was  real,  tangible, 
and  lasting. 

Then  gradually  he  fell  to  thinking  of 
the  other  rare  journeys  he  had  made 
during  his  life;  of  that  first  journey  to 
Liege,  and  his  return  from  it  ;  of  that 
later  one  to  Paris,  and  all  his  hopes  and 
plans  for  his  future  career ;  of  that  fair 
spring  morning  when  he  had  started 
on  a  journey  to  Paradise,  and  lost  his 
way  :  and  musing  over  these  shadows 
of  a  vanished  past  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  again  it  was  broad 
daylight,  and  he  was  aroused  by  the 
sound  and  bustle  of  a  large  station. 
He  got  out  of  the  carriage,  feeling 
chilled  and  dazed,  his  limbs  cramped 
by  his  long  sleep  in  a  sitting  posture. 
There  was  a  babel  of  tongues  about 
him,  and  strange-looking  men  in  long 
coats  and  caps  walked  up  and  down 
the  platform,  smoking  cigarettes,  or 
swarmed  about  the  steaming  samovars. 
The  guard  sounded  his  whistle,  and 
the  motley  crowd  rushed  to  resume 
their  seats  in  the  train.  The  rest  of 
his  journey  was  for  Lanthony  a  sort  of 
dream  between  sleeping  and  waking ; 
he  took  no  conscious  note  of  the 
things  or  people  that  passed  before  his 


224        Gbe  df  law  in  tbe  Garble, 

eyes,  and  when  at  length  he  reached 
Vienna,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
been  traveling  in  that  train  for  years. 

Arrived  at  his  hotel,  he  got  rid  of  the 
dust  and  disorder  of  travel,  made  a 
hurried  breakfast,  and  dispatched  a 
note  to  Baron  Hatz  at  the  address  Cail- 
loudoux  had  given  him,  stating  that 
he  had  come  to  Vienna  with  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  negotiating  terms  for 
the  acquirement  of  his  "  Circe,"  and 
begging  the  favor  of  an  early  interview. 
In  half  an  hour  the  messenger  returned, 
with  a  polite  reply  from  the  Baron's 
secretary,  which  stated  that  Baron 
Hatz  was,  for  the  moment,  absent  from 
Vienna  ;  and  as  regarded  the  proposed 
negotiations  about  M.  Lanthony's 
"Circe,"  that  the  statue  was  no  longer 
in  the  Baron's  possession,  having  been 
sold  by  him  some  weeks  ago  to  Madame 
Le  Fagon,  who  was  at  present  residing 
at  an  address  which  the  writer  gave. 

Lanthony  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
went  downstairs,  and  hailing  a  passing 
cab  drove  to  the  house  to  which  the 
note  had  directed  him.  On  inquiry 
from  the  porter  he  learned  that  Madame 
was  out,  but  that  she  would  probably 
be  at  home  between  two  and  three. 


Jlaw  in  tbe  Garble.         225 

How  he  passed  the  time  that  inter- 
vened he  never  knew,  but  he  felt 
strangely  calm,  his  one  preoccupation 
being  as  to  whether  Madeleine  would 
be  open  to  an  offer  about  her  newly 
acquired  possession.  Do  what  he 
would,  he  could  think  of  nothing  else — 
he  always  was  a  man  entirely  absorbed 
by  one  idea,  and  while  it  lasted  incap- 
able of  considering  any  other.  At  half- 
past  two  he  went  again  to  her  house. 
This  time  there  was  a  carriage  stand- 
ing at  the  door,  and  the  porter  informed 
him  Madame  had  that  moment  come  in. 
As  Lanthony  made  his  way  up  he 
was  conscious  that  a  figure  was  slowly 
preceding  him  a  flight  of  stairs  ahead, 
the  figure  of  a  woman,  and  as  he  recog- 
nized it  his  heart  stood  still.  In  a  few 
steps  he  overtook  her,  and  she,  hearing 
the  footfall  behind  her,  turned  sud- 
denly round.  Lanthony  uncovered  his 
head,  and  in  the  moment  which  inter- 
vened before  either  spoke  he  read  in  her 
eyes,  as  in  a  book,  the  change  the 
past  few  months  had  wrought  in  him. 
She  was  not  given  to  feeling,  still  less 
to  showing,  emotion  of  any  kind,  but 
taken  thus  unawares  her  thought 
printed  itself  in  one  vivid  flash  on  her 


226        Gbe  fflaw  In  tbe  /l&arble. 

face,  and  all  the  shock  of  her  pitying 
surprise  was  as  evident  to  the  man 
who  stood  before  her  as  though  she 
had  given  it  speech.  "  Was  this  hag- 
gard, grizzled,  sunken-eyed  being  the 
same  as  the  man  in  the  boat  who  had 
spoken  beautiful  allegories  about  im- 
possible happiness  but  such  a  short 
while  ago  ?  Was — could  this  apparition 
be  one  and  the  same  with  the  young, 
eager,  almost  beautiful  face  she  remem- 
bered ? "  Only  for  a  moment — -and 
then  she  averted  her  eyes,  for  she  had 
an  instinctive  shrinking  from  every- 
thing that  reminded  her  of  suffering, 
infirmity,  or  decay.  He  was  the  first 
to  speak,  and  his  voice  was  as  altered 
as  the  rest,  as  he  said  in  hoarse,  unnat- 
ural tones, — 

"  I  have  come  to  see  my  statue." 

By  this  time  she  had  quite  recovered 
herself,  and  it  was  in  her  usual  manner, 
and  with  her  accustomed  smile,  that 
she  answered, — 

"  She  has  changed  hands,  but  she 
is  herself  unchanged  ;  come  and  see." 

She  led  the  way  through  several 
rooms  to  a  small  alcove,  or  recess,  at 
the  end  of  a  short  gallery,  and  there 
against  a  curtain  of  dark  greyish-blue 


Cbc  jfUuv  in  tbc  Garble.         227 

velvet  sat  the  "  Circe."  Madeleine 
pushed  fonvard  a  chair  for  him  with 
much  the  same  careful  solicitude  that 
one  betrays  for  the  comfort  of  some 
old  or  very  feeble  person.  But  he  re- 
mained standing.  He  looked  for  a 
few  seconds  in  silence  at  the  statue, 
then  he  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  ground, 
and  nervously  toying  with  a  crystal  ball 
which  lay  on  a  low  table  beside  him, 
said, — 

"  I  came  to  Vienna  expressly  to  see 
this  statue — to  see  it,  and,  if  possible, 
to  acquire  it.  It — it  cost  me  a  great 
deal  of  time  and  labor,  and  it  was  sold 
without  my  knowledge  when — when  I 
was  ill.  I  was  at  the  time  unable  to 
manage  my  own  affairs,  and  Carrolin, 
who  was  acting  for  me,  made  the  best 
bargain  he  could.  But  I  am  now  anx- 
ious to  repurchase,  if — if  that  can  be 
arranged." 

He  spoke  these  words  in  the  dull, 
even  tone  of  one  who  is  repeating  a 
lesson  learned  by  rote.  And  then  he 
stood  and  awaited  her  reply.  It  was 
not  long  in  coming.  If  she  now  felt 
surprise,  she  did  not  allow  it  to  appear, 
and  if  he  expected  a  denial  of  his  re- 
quest, his  apprehension  was  at  fault. 


fflaw  in  tbe  /Barbie. 

"  Your  '  Circe  '  must,  as  you  say,"  she 
said  slowly,  "  have  cost  you — a  great 
deal.  And  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to 
facilitate  your  wishes  about  her.  But, 
please,  do  not  let  there  be  any  question 
of  buying  and  selling  between  you  and 
me.  I  bought  her  for — for  a  caprice, 
and  I  am  already  tired  of  her.  It  is 
rather  wearisome,  do  you  know,"  she 
added,  smiling,  "  to  be  constantly 
brought  face  to  face  with  oneself. 
You  will  be  doing  me  a  favor  by  tak- 
ing her  off  my  hands." 

"  Name  your  own  price,  madame." 

"  I  have  already  told  you  I  do  not 
wish  to  sell  it,"  she  replied  with  a 
shade  of  impatience,  "  and  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  put  a  valuation  on  a 
thing  which  is,  to  me,  valueless.  I  am 
not  given  to  asking  favors,  but  I  tell 
you  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you  if  you 
will  accept  this  gift  from  me  without 
further  question." 

"  This  is  purely  a  business  transac- 
tion, madame.  I  shall  be  obliged  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  buy  the  statue. 
I  cannot  accept  it  as  a  gift." 

"  As  you  will,"  she  said  with  a  little 
shrug. 

"  I  propose  to  offer  the  sum  which  I 


Jflaw  in  tbe  /Garble.         229 

received  for  her — ;£Soo — it  is  all  I  can 
afford,  but  it  may  not  meet  your 
views." 

"  I  shall  be  very  well  content  to 
part  with  her  at  that  figure,"  she  re- 
plied imperturbably. 

Paul  asked  for  writing  materials, 
and  sat  down  with  trembling  hands  to 
make  out  the  cheque.  She  stood  be- 
hind him,  a  curious  expression  of 
mocking  triumph  in  her  eyes.  He  did 
not  know  it,  but  the  transaction  was 
in  some  sense  a  gift  after  all,  for  she 
had  paid  £2000  to  Hatz. 

"  I  am  leaving  Vienna  as  soon  as 
possible,  madame,"  he  said,  rising  and 
handing  her  the  cheque  ;  "  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  the  statue  removed  and 
packed  as  soon  as  may  be." 

"When  you  will,"  she  assented 
laconically. 

The  object  of  his  visit  was  attained 
yet  still  he  lingered,  and  for  the  first 
time  during  their  interview  his  eyes 
rested  on  her  face.  She  was  un- 
changed— as  peerlessly,  matchlessly 
beautiful  as  ever ;  could  that  face,  he 
wondered  to  himself,  ever  grow  old? 
The  past  came  back  with  a  rush,  and 
in  a  moment  he  found  himself  saying 


230         abe  fflaw  tn  tbe  /foarble. 

the  very  thing  he  had  inwardly  sworn 
should  not  pass  his  lips. 

"I  told  you  just  now,"  he  began, 
"  that  I  had  been  lately  very  ill.  I 
was  ill  for  weeks,  months,  I  believe, 
and  one  night  they  thought  I  was 
dying.  That  night  I  had  a  dream — a 
very  curious  dream — I  should  like, 
before  I  go,  to  tell  it  to  you." 

Her  face  betrayed  no  change  of 
expression,  as  she  nodded  a  permissive 
acquiescence. 

"  I  dreamed  that  the  only  woman  I 
have  ever  loved,  or  ever  shall  love,  the 
woman  who  was  all  the  world  to  me, 
came  and  leaned  over  me  as  I  lay  there 
dying,  and  told  me  she  loved  me.  '  I 
love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,'  she 
said,  and  kissed  me.  I  did  not  die — 
those  words,  that  kiss  conquered  death. 
But  when  I  came  back  to  life  she  was 
gone,  and  those  about  me  told  me  it 
was  only  the  delusion  of  sickness." 

There  was  perfect  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  and  then  she  said  in  a 
low,  even  voice, — 

"  It  was,  as  you  say,  a  very  curious 
dream." 

"  Madeleine,"  he  asked  eagerly, 
"  when  did  you  leave  Paris  ?  " 


fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         231 

"On  the  1 5th  of  May,"  she  replied, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes ; 
"and,  question  for  question,  what  was 
the  date  of  your  wonderful  dream  ?  " 

He  passed  his  hand  wearily  over 
his  brow  in  a  desperate  effort  to 
remember,  and  then  said  confusedly, — 

"  I — I  cannot  recollect — I  lost  all 
count  of  time  those  days." 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  he  turned 
all  the  pleading  misery  of  his  face  to 
her  in  an  agony  of  appeal. 

"  Madeleine,"  he  implored,  "  I  ask 
nothing  of  you  for  the  future — I  will 
go  away  and  never  seek  to  see  you 
again.  But  before  I  go,  tell  me  that 
that  at  least  of  all  the  past  was  no 
delusion.  Let  that  be  true,  if  every- 
thing else  in  the  world  is  a  lie.  I  will 
not  ask  you  why  you  came,  nor  why 
you  left  me ;  only  say  my  dream  was 
no  dream." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  reluctant 
pity  in  those  wonderful  eyes,  and  lay- 
ing her  hand  gently  on  his  arm,  she 
said  in  a  tone  of  kindly  commisera- 
tion,— 

"  Alas !  my  friend,  what  would  you 
have  me  say  ?  They  were  right,  those 
others,  in  what  they  told  you.  Your 


232         Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

dream  was  but  a  dream  ;  it  could  not 
be  otherwise — and  it  is  better  so." 

He  shook  off  her  hand  as  though  it 
stung  him,  and  seemed  about  to  speak, 
but  a  servant  entering  at  that  moment, 
he  checked  himself. 

"  Well — our  business  is  finished,  is 
it  not  ? "  she  said,  holding  out  her 
hand  to  him  in  smiling  dismissal — 
almost  the  same  words  she  had  used 
one  memorable  day  at  the  studio. 
"  But  we  shall  perhaps  meet  again 
before  you  go  ?  " 

Her  question  remained  unanswered, 
but  she  did  not  need  a  reply :  some 
questions  answer  themselves. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ONE  sultry  morning  in  the  beginning 
of  September,  Lanthony,  who  had  re- 
turned to  Paris,  was  occupied  in  his 
studio  in  hanging  up  on  the  now  other- 
wise bare  walls  a  marble  fragment  of 
remarkable  beauty.  It  represented  a 
woman's  arm,  or  rather,  such  part  of  it 
as,  starting  a  little  below  the  shoulder, 
lies  between  that  and  the  wrist.  The 
hand  was  missing,  and  at  either  end 
the  fragment  was  jagged  and  uneven,  as 
though  it  had  been  broken  off  from  the 
figure  to  which  it  had  belonged  by 
rough  and  ill-directed  blows.  He  was 
slow  in  satisfying  himself  as  to  the  exact 
disposition  of  his  treasure  ;  he  tried  it 
first  against  one  wall  and  then  against 
another,  and  having  finally  selected 
what  seemed  to  him  the  most  favorable 


234         Gbe  3f  law  in  tbe  flbarble. 

spot,  immediately  above  the  model- 
platform  which  stood  facing  the  north 
window,  he  took  his  measurements  and 
proceeded  to  knock  in  the  long,  curved 
staples  which  were  to  support  the  mar- 
ble. That  fragment  was  all  that  now 
remained  in  recognizable  entity  of  the 
famous  statue  of  "  Circe  "  of  which  all 
the  world  had  been  talking  a  few 
months  before,  and  which  was  Lan- 
thony's  first  and  last  essay  on  lines  of 
which  he  was  the  sole  discoverer.  In 
his  later  works,  which  were  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  those  of  sundry 
of  his  contemporaries,  he  returned  to 
the  worship  of  his  old  ideals,  and  re- 
gaining the  favor  of  Plon  and  his  school, 
became  in  the  end  "plus  royalist e  que 
le  Rot" 

When  he  came  back  to  Paris  he 
brought  the  statue  with  him,  and  had 
the  case  containing  it  placed  in  an 
empty  cellar  opening  out  of  the  court 
belonging  to  the  house  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Valliere.  Much  the  same  crowd 
collected  to  welcome  the  "  Circe"  back 
as  had  assembled  to  bid  her  ban  voyage 
on  her  departure  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  year — the  porter  and  his  wife,  the 
baker's  man  with  his  flat  tray  on  his 


fflaw  in  tbe  flbarble.         235 

head,  an  idler  or  two,  and  a  selection 
of  little  boys  who  on  this,  as  on  the 
former  occasion,  seemed  to  regard  the 
proceedings  as  a  show  got  up  for  their 
especial  benefit.  The  next  day  Lan- 
thony  got  a  carpenter  to  prise  open 
the  case  or  crate  which  contained  the 
statue,  and  applied  himself  unaided  to 
carry  out  what  remained  to  be  accom- 
plished of  his  purpose.  He  locked 
himself  into  the  cellar,  so  as  to  be  free 
from  intrusion,  took  off  his  coat,  rolled 
up  his  shirt-sleeves,  and,  taking  up  a 
heavy  stone-mason's  hammer  with 
which  he  had  provided  himself,  began 
his  work  of  destruction.  He  went  at  it 
with  characteristic  energy,  applying  as 
much  apparent  force  of  attention  to  ob- 
literating and  annihilating  his  creation, 
as  he  had  expended  in  fashioning  and 
moulding  it  into  careful  loveliness. 
With  this  difference,  however,  that 
whereas  the  making  of  this  thing  of 
beauty  had  been  the  outcome  of  slow 
months  of  patient  thought  and  consec- 
utive labor,  the  marring  of  it  was  but 
the  swift  result  of  a  frenzied  impulse  of 
tumultuous  rage. 

Lanthony  struck  right  and  left  at  the 
marble  figure  before  him,  raining  blows 


236        Gbe  jflaw  in  tbc  /Bbacble. 

of  blind  fury,  now  upon  the  smiling 
mouth,  now  upon  the  serene  eyes,  on 
the  stately  column  of  the  proud  throat, 
on  the  lissom  lines  and  suave  propor- 
tions in  which  his  brain  had  triumphed 
and  his  heart  delighted.  Never  again, 
he  repeated,  should  the  eye  of  man 
gaze  upon  that  apotheosis  of  fair  false- 
ness, that  monument  of  disillusion  and 
despair.  And  as  he  struck,  a  mad  pas- 
sion of  revenge  arose  in  his  tortured 
senses,  and  it  seemed  as  if  each  blow 
carried  a  requital  to  the  being  whom 
he  so  loved  and  so  loathed.  His  self- 
imposed  labor  was  soon  over,  and 
that  which  had  been  an  artist's  high- 
est achievement  and  a  world's  wonder 
and  delight,  lay  shivered  into  irrecog- 
nizable  fragments  at  his  feet. 

He  threw  the  hammer  into  the 
chaotic  heap  of  white  chips,  and  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  wiped  the  sweat 
from  his  brow,  surveying  the  ruin  he 
had  wrought  with  a  grim  smile.  Sud- 
denly his  eye  lit  upon  an  intact  piece 
of  marble  which  had  fallen  off  at  some 
distance  from  the  rest  and  lay  a  little 
to  his  left.  He  moved  towards  it,  and 
found  it  to  be  the  greater  part  of  the 
right  arm.  The  hand  on  which  the 


Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  Garble.         237 

cheek  had  leaned  had  perished  with  the 
rest,  but  this  fragment  had  by  some 
curious  chance  escaped  the  general 
destruction.  It  must  have  flown  off 
unnoticed  in  the  excitement  of  that 
storm  of  blows — it  had  saved  itself,  as 
it  were,  and  Lanthony,  his  mad  passion 
evaporated,  felt  that  he  had  neither 
the  will  nor  the  energy  to  recommence 
his  sterile  vengeance  in  cold  blood. 

He  picked  it  up,  and  flicking  off  the 
dust  which  besmirched  it,  carried  it 
away  with  him  and  slowly  mounted  the 
stairs  to  his  studio. 

Carrolin  came  in  just  as  he  had  fin- 
ished fixing  it  in  its  position  on  the 
wall.  Lanthony,  looking  over  his 
shoulder,  nodded  a  greeting  without 
speaking. 

"  I  heard  you  were  back,  Paul,  and 
came  to  wish  you  welcome." 

"  Yes — I  came  back  the  day  before 
yesterday  from  Vienna,  where  I  had 
been  to  try  and  repurchase  my  statue 
— the  '  Circe,'  you  remember." 

"But,  if  I  remember!  Well,  and 
did  you  succeed?" 

"Yes,  I  brought  her  back  with 
me." 

It  was  not   a  subject  that  Carrolin 


238        Gbe  fflaw  in  tbe  /Bbarble. 

would  have  ventured  to  touch  upon, 
but  taking  his  friend's  easy  tone  as  a 
sign  that  travel  and  change  of  scene 
had  worked  unexpected  wonders  for 
him,  he  continued, — 

"  I  congratulate  you,  old  fellow  ;  and 
where  is  she?  When  can  I  see  her 
again  ?  " 

"  She  is  here — downstairs.  Come 
and  see." 

Lanthony  led  the  way  down  the  out- 
side staircase  which  communicated  be- 
tween his  studio  and  the  court,  and 
crossing  the  yard,  unlocked  the  cellar 
and  admitted  his  friend. 

Carrolin  stood  spellbound  on  the 
threshold,  gazing  with  dazed  and  hor- 
ror stricken  eyes  at  the  marble  carnage 
before  him.  Then  a  spasm  of  pain 
passed  over  his  kindly  face,  as  a  terrible 
suspicion  shot  through  his  mind.  To 
Carrolin  such  wanton  destruction  of 
artistic  achievement  seemed  little  less 
than  murder,  and  was  only  to  be  ac- 
counted for  in  one  way — the  mental 
aberration  of  his  poor  friend,  through 
the  bodily  illness  that  he  knew  of,  and 
the  other  trouble  at  which  he  guessed. 
His  horror  at  the  thought  kept  him 
tongue-tied  and  rooted  to  the  spot. 


jflaw  in  tbe  dfcarble.         239 

Then — for  his  was  a  practical  as  well  as 
a  compassionate  nature — he  reflected 
that  the  really  important  point  now 
was  that  the  whole  affair  should  be 
kept  secret ;  for,  he  argued,  madness  is 
not  always  incurable,  but  the  stigma 
which  it  carries  is  never  forgotten  by 
the  world  that  frames  and  pronounces 
upon  a  man's  career.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  was  mistaken  in  his  assump- 
tion, for  Lanthony  had  no  better  ex- 
cuse for  this  act  of  incomparable  folly 
than  has  any  one  who  helplessly  yields 
to  a  movement  of  irrational  anger. 
But,  believing  what  he  did,  Carrolin 
loyally  kept  to  himself  what  he  had 
seen  until,  some  years  later,  death  for 
ever  sealed  his  lips. 

"  That  statue,  from  first  to  last," 
said  Lanthony,  breaking  the  silence, 
"  cost  me  a  good  deal  in  more  ways 
than  one." 

He  paused,  and 

"The  flaw  in  the  marble?"  hazarded 
Carrolin  tentatively. 

"  The  flaw  in  the  marble  ?  "  echoed 
the  other  mechanically  ;  and  then  with 
a  bitter  emphasis  which  his  friend  did 
not  wholly  understand,  "  Yes,  the  flaw 
in  the  marble,"  he  repeated. 


240         abe  jflaw  in  tbe  Garble. 

Carrolin  laid  his  hand  gently  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Paul,  old  fellow,  let  us  go  upstairs. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Lanthony  relocked  the  door,  and 
they  went  up  together  to  the  studio. 
Carrolin  sat  down  in  a  chair  facing  the 
south  wall,  and  absently  lighted  a 
cigarette. 

"  I  ought  to  have  destroyed  that 
too,"  said  Lanthony,  following  the 
direction  of  his  friend's  eyes,  "  but  it 
saved  itself  by  some  strange  chance, 
and  I — well,  I  hadn't  the  heart  to 
break  it  up  afterwards." 

Carrolin  sat  for  a  moment  or  two, 
silently  remembering  many  things. 
Then  he  said  very  kindly, — 

"  Ah  !  Paul,  it  was  but  ill  wisdom  to 
destroy  such  a  reality  as  that  for  a 
dream." 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  the  other  with  a 
curious  smile ;  but,  as  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  fragment  on  the  wall,  he  knew 
that  his  "  dream  "  had  been  no  dream. 


Ah  !  le  pauvre  ami  ! 

THE    END. 


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A     000  088  679     6 


